


For the Win

by OncefortheFun



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:40:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 34
Words: 226,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24067501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OncefortheFun/pseuds/OncefortheFun
Summary: When Santana finds out that Puck is getting married, she proposes to Quinn in order to beat him to the altar and win a bet they made in high school. Santana and Quinn have been sleeping around for years, anyway, so she figures Quinn's as good a choice as any. When Quinn agrees to marry her, Santana finds out that the only thing worse than losing may just be winning.
Relationships: Quinn Fabray/Santana Lopez
Comments: 44
Kudos: 152





	1. Marry Me

Quinn was so close to the edge that she could taste it. She needed just one more thing, one more thrust, one more tweak, one more something, and she was there. “Quinn?” Santana huffed.

Quinn hummed, because that was the best thing she could do. She swore that if Santana was about to do some sneaky bitch crap like demand that Quinn beg…well she would, but she’d make damn sure that Santana paid for it later. “Will you marry me?”

Quinn’s eyes snapped open, and she looked into the brown eyes that were hovering over her. “What?” Quinn panted. This was new. It had definitely never come up in sex before. Santana’s tongue gave a quick flip over the pebbled edge of Quinn’s very stiff nipple, before she bit down on it. At the same time she curled her fingers inside of Quinn. “Marry me,” Santana panted.

Quinn opened her mouth, and it was at that very moment that her orgasm spread through her body, and whatever she was going to say was momentarily forgotten as Santana’s name was wrenched from her lips. Santana’s fingers continued to move as he waves of her orgasm flooded her, and Quinn thought that it was because Santana was trying to help her through it, but then she felt Santana’s tongue on her still sensitive clit. Santana’s fingers started thrusting inside of her again, and when she gasped, Santana pulled out for a second to add another finger to the equation.

Her walls clenched against Santana’s working digits, trying to draw them deeper inside of her. Quinn fisted Santana’s hair, her hips canting into Santana’s capable and willing mouth as Quinn was brought to the edge of her third orgasm of the night. Her nails dug into Santana’s back, no longer scratching lightly, and it was all she could do to remember to breathe out. She wasn’t going to last very long this time around; it was almost embarrassing that Santana could manipulate her body like this, and she was…wait. Was she slowing down?

Santana’s fingers had nearly stilled, her tongue flickering lazily against her clit. What the hell? “San-,” Quinn panted, arching her back.

Santana kissed at the clit. “Will you?” she questioned. She slammed into Quinn hard, her fingers going deep.

Quinn gasped. “Will I…oh, God…er…what?”

She brought her fingers nearly out, and pushed them back in, temptingly slowly. A moan slipped past Quinn’s usually very composed mouth. Santana smiled up at her. “You like that?”

“God…yes!”

Santana continued to pump slowly, working Quinn to madness. She was going to give Santana the biggest case of blue…Quinn suddenly felt like Homer with a donut. Oh God, was she actually drooling? “Marry me,” Santana whispered onto her knob, her voice throaty and raspy.

Santana’s fingers started to work faster, teeth gently grazed her clit, and Quinn was surprised by the intensity of it when she crashed into her orgasm. She struggled to hold onto consciousness, vaguely aware of Santana’s fingers still moving inside of her. She wanted to push her fingers away, but she’d forgotten how to move at the moment.

“Good?” Santana questioned.

Quinn’s eyes fluttered open and closed so she didn’t see the proud smirk that Santana was wearing.

“Mmm…yes.” Quinn murmured, vaguely aware that Santana was bringing her to yet another climax.

“Marry me.”

The part of her mind that was still working was amused. S _antana asked me to marry her._ She lost her fight when the fourth orgasm gripped her. _Well, okay¸ sh_ e thought. “Why not?"It was her last thought before she blacked out.

She woke up with that feeling that she had slept for too long, but she felt deliciously detached from her body, weightless. She smiled. She usually only felt this way after a night with Santana, because despite all of her faults (and believe her she had a lot of them), only Santana knew how to fuck her until she forgot her name. She stretched, sore, and slightly confused by the warm feeling on her lower abdomen. She looked down to see a hand wrapped possessively around her.

Her eyes narrowed. “The fuck,” she whispered.

She studied the head that was pressed into the pillow beside her. It definitely belonged to a woman, and if the passion fruit and sex smell that permeated the air was any indication, it was Santana. She knew she was in Santana’s bed. These were Santana’s sheets. She recognized Santana’s shoulder blades; she’d watched them move gracefully over her the countless times Santana had topped her. Yep, they were hers, but the tanned, muscular arm that rested on top of her stomach couldn’t be Santana’s. She and Santana didn’t cuddle. Like ever. Quinn was actually surprised that she was still in the bed.

_Oh, God_ , Quinn realized with a groan. _Santana finally got me to have a threesome!_

“Mmm…stop moving so much,” Santana mumbled, sleepily. That voice was definitely Santana’s, and there was no one else in the bed, so there had been no threesome. So why was Santana’s arm around her? Santana pulled her closer into her, her leg entangling with Quinn’s. Quinn froze. Something was happening…or was it had?

She struggled to remember the events of the night before. It started with a phone call. _“Quinn! Drop whatever lame ass thing you’re doing tonight, because tonight you’re doing_ me!” Okay, that wasn’t unusual. Santana’s pick-up lines were always half-assed because honestly she didn’t even try anymore because they both knew Quinn was Santana’s go to hook-up. Although…now that she thought about it, it had been a little early in the evening when Santana called; the sun had still been up.

Quinn went over to Santana’s place. That was normal. Santana pinned Quinn against the door as soon as she walked through it, kissing her roughly. Still normal. They drank some. Santana called her beautiful. That was… _odd_. Music was turned on, they kissed some more, Quinn and Santana had a show of dominance. Quinn won. She pushed Santana down onto the carpet, and brought her to orgasm…still nothing unusual. They ended up in Santana’s bedroom. That was a given. (Well, not really. There were plenty of times that they never made it to the bedroom). 

Okay, so they were in her room. Santana pushed Quinn down onto the bed. Mouths were everywhere, breasts rubbed together, Santana was on top and had her leg wedged between Quinn’s, her knee occasionally hitting her core. Santana had gone slow. Teasing her towards an orgasm, but backing down before she could achieve it. That was…fun. A lot of the time their transactions were just that, transactions. Sometimes they drank before sex, sometimes they made out. Most times they didn’t. Well, didn’t kiss on the lips, anyway. Sometimes one or the other would spend the night, but it was rare for the other to bother with saying good-bye before they left, but they always left with the other satisfied. Sexually.

Quinn dismissed Santana’s teasing. She could have just been bored last night and didn’t have anything else to do. Quinn finally came, hard, she blacked out, and now she was here. With Santana cuddling her. She felt like somewhere in there she had missed something.

“You’re thinking too loudly,” Santana grumbled. Quinn lifted a hand to push Santana off of her, and saw something small, and glittery, wrapped around her finger. If Quinn didn’t know better, she would have thought it was a ring. If Quinn really didn’t know better, she would have thought it was an engagement ring.

Her hand paused in the air.

Okay, it was definitely time for Santana to be up. Quinn shoved her, nearly pushing her off the bed. “San!”

Santana growled, actually growled, as she sat up on her side. “Quinn, I swear my apartment better be on fire. What. The. Hell!”

“What did you do?”

A confused frown appeared on Santana’s sleepy face as she thought about it. She was sure that she’d turned the stove off, and she was doubly sure that she had given Quinn multiple orgasms the night before so…that covered everything right? She bit down on her bottom lip trying to figure out what had Quinn’s panties in a bunch. Quinn watched the action, disgusted with herself. Was she really getting turned on over a lip bite? Like really? _Now_?

Santana seemed to give up. “I don’t know, Q, what did I do? And while we’re playing 21 questions, why am I not sleeping right now?” A thought seemed to occur to her, and Santana suddenly looked hopeful. “Hey, since you’re up, you wanna make me breakfast?”

Quinn rolled her eyes. “Fucking Un. Believe. Able.”

Hope vanished from Santana’s face and she looked utterly miserable. “So…no?” When Quinn didn’t answer, Santana rolled back over, pulling the sheets around her.

Quinn pushed her again. “You’re not going back to sleep!”

“Q, you’re giving me whiplash!” Santana protested. “Make up your mind! Sleep or breakfast?” Another thought seemed to possess Santana, and Quinn was astounded at how quickly Santana turned around and was on top of Quinn, tugging her hand between their bodies. “Or you could give me a morning quickie.”

Quinn pulled her hand away. “I’m not giving you a quickie!”

Santana grunted and rolled off of her. She shook her head. “Unh, I need coffee.” Without bothering to dress, Santana got out of the bed and headed for her kitchen. She started the Keurig, listening to it warm up. Quinn, after pausing to put on a shirt and pull on shorts that belonged to Santana, came stomping behind her, coming into the kitchen just as Santana was peeking into the refrigerator. Quinn couldn’t help but be appreciative of the sight of Santana’s bare ass in the air, swaying in tune to the song Santana was singing under her breath. Quinn stood in the doorway, just staring.

Quinn was sure there was a reason she’d gone chasing after Santana, but all Quinn could think about in that moment, was pushing her into the fridge door, hiking her leg up, and taking her right there. Quinn had actually taken a few strides to do just that, when she shook her head. Now was _not_ the time. Santana noticed Quinn had joined her. She closed the door. “Babe, I really think that you should be making me breakfast since you woke me up at like,” she checked the clock. “9:00 a.m. On Saturday!”

Quinn briefly remembered that she had things she was supposed to be doing today, the start of which was waking up in her own bed. She was wasting time by being here. “Don’t call me babe,” Quinn said crossly.

Santana shrugged. “Okay, _Quinn_. Breakfast?”

“I’m not making you breakfast, Santana!”

Santana pouted. “Boo. You’re a terrible wife! No sex, no food. What kind of woman doesn’t make her wife breakfast after dragging her out of bed?” In a huff Santana pulled down a mug, and slapped a carton into the brewer. 

Santana’s words brought Quinn back to where her mind needed to be. “Okay, first, I’m not you’re wife, second…did you really freaking propose while _we were having sex_?”

A twisted smile appeared on Santana’s face, and she looked pretty proud of herself. “Yea. I was going to put the ring on my clit and tell you to go down on me, but I thought that the way I did it was a better touch.” Although, now that she was thinking about it, Santana really wasn’t sold on the clit not being the better choice. Quinn was amazing with her tongue.

“You can’t ask someone to marry you in the middle of sex!”

“What?” Santana questioned. She had been envisioning Quinn sucking the ring off of her clit and had got distracted. “Why not?” Quinn was startled to realize that she was absolutely serious. “You said yes.”

“Cause I was out of my mind,”

Again with the smile. “I know.” There was no mistaken it that time. Bitch was proud of herself. The machine stopped pouring and Santana squealed. “Whoo, coffee’s done!” She paused in a moment of consideration. “I’m not really used to doing the morning thing with you. Do you want a cup, too?”

Santana didn’t wait for an answer. She sat the cup in front of Quinn and immediately went to brewing another. Quinn, though slightly touched by the gesture, was not to be distracted. “We’re not getting married, Santana!”

“You said yes,” Santana said matter-of-factly. “No halfsies, no take-backs.”

Quinn rolled her eyes and her fingers tensed as she willed herself not to smack the woman standing in front of her. The naked woman in front of her. The naked women drinking coffee in front of her. What was she doing? Oh, right. “You can’t use playground logic on a wedding proposal.”

Santana smiled down happily into her cup of coffee, but then looked up and squinted at Quinn. “Why not?”

“Are you serious?”

“Totally. You said yes.”

Quinn couldn’t believe that she was having this conversation! Santana proposing wasn’t a surprise in the ‘Oh my God, I can’t believe that the person that I’m completely in love with wants to actually spend their lives with me’ kind of way. It was a surprise the way Hiroshima was a surprise to the Japanese villager who didn’t know that they were at war. She and Santana had definitely, definitely not made it to this point in their relationship.

Actually, they didn’t have a relationship. They weren’t dating. They had a mutually beneficial symbiotic connection that started in college, and kind of just never ended. Every couple of months or so, they’d run into each other seemingly by chance (though at first it was all planned because you can’t accidentally run into someone you live a hundred miles away from, even if Santana always said surprise!), they’d have sex, maybe for a couple of days or weekends in a row, and then they wouldn’t talk for a couple of months.

It worked for them. They had never exchanged ‘I love you’s’, they never cuddled, most of the time one of them left in the middle of the night because they both preferred their own beds. They were fuck buddies, nothing more. After all this time the most adoration Santana had ever expressed was sending Quinn flowers one year on Valentine’s Day (which Santana later sent her the bill for) when she needed an emergency rescue from a jerk at work, and the most concern Santana had showed for her general well-being was Santana telling her, after she had gone down on Quinn, _“Oh, yeah…so I kind of had sex with some really sketch chick last month and didn’t use a dam, so you might want to get checked out.”_ Well she did follow that up with an ‘ _Everything check out?’_ text a month later, which was instantly negated by the _‘Cool, so wanna bump uglies’_ one that came after Quinn texted her back ‘ _yes’_.

Quinn studied the girl that she’s known for more than a decade. They probably knew each other better than anyone else ever would, and yet nothing in their past suggested that those particular words would come out of her mouth, and certainly not be directed towards her. Maybe Santana forgot she wasn’t Brittany. “You’re actually serious? Like you are seriously proposing that you and I get married?”

Santana gave her head a firm nod. “Yep.”

“Why?”

Santana looked Quinn in the eye, her face adopting a serious look. “I don’t know, Q, I just guess I woke up one day and I realized that the only person who ever truly got me was you, and…,” Santana burst out laughing, spilling coffee as she did so. “Dude, I can’t. I almost gagged just trying to say that sappy crap.” Santana shrugged. “Think about it, Q. We’ve been friends for years, we’re already having sex and we enjoy it, and you know, maybe I love you.”

Quinn’s lips pulled into a straight line, in a very school teacher kind of way. It made Santana wonder why Quinn never wore her hair up and her glasses on when they had sex. “We need a ruler,” Santana mumbled.

“What?”

Santana shook her head. “Huh? Nothing. Did you say something?”

Quinn was still wearing the stern teacher look. “I said, ‘do you really’?” She repeated, probably in as sarcastically a voice as she used the first time she said it when Santana wasn’t paying attention. Santana knew that Quinn took her response for the utter bullshit it probably was.

“Dunno. I’m not used to that question being posed without music being involved. Why don’t you sing me something so I can be sure? I’ll hum in the background if you need me to.”

Quinn took a much needed step back from the counter. “Okay, I’m going to go take a shower, and then I’m getting dressed and going home.”

Santana scratched at her ear. “Er…okay. Like I said, I’m new to this, but I thought that maybe we’d hang today, or something, but I guess if you have things you have to do I understand. Can I tell my mom, though, or do you…is that something we should do together?”

Quinn raised an eyebrow. “We’re not getting married, Santana!”

“God, you’re just being confusing now! We both agreed that there’s no take backs. I asked, you said yes. It’s too early for all this back and forth, Fabray! I hope we’re not going to be like this our whole marriage.”

Quinn felt like pulling her hair out. “Santana, what is this really about?”

Santana sipped on her coffee innocently. “What do you mean?”

“I’m not stupid, and neither are you. Where is this coming from? Why are you _really_ asking me to marry you?”

Santana decided to level with Quinn. Maybe it would help. She sat her mug on the counter. “Okay, so I may or may not have made a bet that I’d get married before Puck would, and I just found out…you know Puck’s getting married in a month?”

Quinn’s jaw actually dropped open at her words. “This is about a bet? You proposed to me because of a bet?”

“Well…yeah. I mean, I could have asked a stranger or something, but we have great sex and you’re kind of hot…I mean we’d make a cute couple, I think.”

Quinn wanted to make sure that she had all the facts. “You want to get married because of a bet?”

Santana looked seriously into her eyes. “I really hate losing, Quinn.”

“I’m not gay, S. Why in the world would I marry you?”

Santana shrugged, closing off the distance that was between them. She looked in Quinn’s eyes. “Well, I do do that thing with my tongue that you really like.” Santana purred, letting the tongue in question slip over her thick, plush lips. Quinn’s eyes followed the movement. She felt heat move to her abdomen at the sight. She shivered. Santana backed her into the counter. “And, you’d get to have sex with me whenever you want.”

Quinn swallowed. “And…uh…how is that an incentive?”

Santana postured. “ _You_ get to _have sex_ with _me whenever_ you want. How is that _not_ an incentive? I mean have you had sex with me?”

“Yes, and it wasn’t great enough for me to want to marry someone over it.”

“I beg to differ,” Santana protested. “You’re not even walking straight right now!”

Quinn flushed. “Only cause my back pain keeps flaring up.”

Santana chuckled. “Right, Quinnie. Your ‘back’ is about as queer as the rest of you, and you’re pretty gay, Quinn, hate to break it to you.”

“You still haven’t told me a logical reason for marrying you.”

“Oh come on, Quinn, I’m like the best relationship you’ve ever had.” Quinn scoffed. “Alright, fine, I’m the _longest_ relationship that you’ve ever had.”

This stopped Quinn short because sadly that was true. And incredibly sad. She was 29 years old for crying out loud. What the hell did it say about her that the only thing that had been consistent in her life all this time was Santana? “I don’t really have sex with other women when we’re on anymore, and I bet the only time that you sleep with someone else is when you realize that you haven’t been sleeping with anyone but me.”

Now that…was scarily accurate. But it was a recent development. As in the past four years recent development. It was just that this thing that she had with Santana was easy. She didn’t have to try. She didn’t have to put in work. All she had to do was call Santana when she needed a tuning, and Santana would show up. She only broke with that agreement when she realize that she was never going to ever get married if she didn’t date, so she’d go out with some John from work, but she never seemed to connect with anyone. Other than Santana. Good God, if Santana somehow turned out to be the love of her life she was going to shoot herself. Or the Geico lizard because, seriously, it was time.

“And I’m kind of fond of you Quinnie,” Santana said teasingly, but there was some truth to it, too. Quinn could hear it in Santana’s voice. “Tell you what: if you say yes, I’ll get up and cook breakfast for you every other Saturday.”

It was a suspiciously generous offer considering how late Santana liked to sleep on the weekends. “For how long?”

“A year.”

Quinn’s brow furrowed. “How long do you think we’d be married?”

“Forever. I’m Catholic, babe.”

“You’re also gay.”

“Minor details. I’ll carry our first child.”

Quinn wasn’t sure which part needed to be addressed the most. The word first, child, or the fact that she was even entertaining this conversation.

“Umm…how many children would you want? Hypothetically speaking of course because we’re not going to get married.”

Santana shrugged. “At least two. If we just have one then we’ll give birth to the next Rachel Berry,” Santana shuttered and Quinn laughed. “The world wouldn’t survive.”

“You know you love her.”

“In small, small doses,” Santana responded. “I’ll even let you raise the kids Catholic.”

“I’m Protestant, Santana.”

Santana winked at her. “I know…that’s why I’m saying I will _let_ you. It’s an honor, take it.”

“We’re not getting married.”

“I won’t buy you corny crap on Valentine’s Day, but I will dedicate a whole day to you somewhere between March and June and make you feel really special because I want to and not because television tells me I have to.”

“No.”

“I’ll watch _Sex and the City_ with you when you get your period like I know you like to do, and I won’t even complain.”

“ _You_ won’t complain.”

“Much. I’ll even make sure that you have chocolate, and I’ll rub your belly.”

“No.”

Santana realized that she was going to have to pull out the big guns, though she was foggy on why she even had to bother since Quinn had already said yes. It was only fair that she went through with it. “I’ll like only sleep with you, and stuff. Unless you want to have a threesome. Or foursome. Or an orgy, I’m not picky, but I’ll at least tell you beforehand if I’m about to have sex with someone else.”

“You already do that anyway,” Quinn pointed out.

Santana thought about it. “Do I? Shit, I really am in a relationship with you, aren’t I? Well, then, it makes even more sense that the two of us get married since I mean we practically already are.”

“How many times do I have to tell you-,”

“Get off of it, Quinn, you’re totally going to marry me. We’re like perfect for each other, and stuff. I never really thought about it, but there’s probably a reason that neither of us have had serious relationship with anyone else, and our periods have already synced up.” Santana nodded as it was settled. “And, if you say yes, when we buy a house, if there’s only a one car garage, I’ll park out on the street, and you can have the driveway?”

Quinn actually paused. So did Santana. “Really, Q? That’s what gets you?”

“What?” Quinn questioned innocently. “You’ve seen my hair when it rains!”

“You’d marry me for a parking space?”

Quinn was actually starting to consider the idea. She shook her head. “Course not.”

“Hey, and when we get old, and wrinkly, and you’re not so hot anymore, and you stop having sex with me, I won’t put you in a nursing home.”

“Really?”

“Nah, I’ll like, move you to a back room in the house, and move my young girlfriend in, but I totally won’t abandon you.”

“Why do you sound like you mean that?”

“Cause I do.”

“I can’t listen to this anymore. If I say yes, will you finally shut up?”

“You already said yes,” Santana pointed out.

“Fine, fine, yes, I’ll do it, but only because Russell hasn’t disowned me yet, and the news of me marrying another girl will probably send him to an early grave...and then I’ll get my inheritance.”

“Vicious.”

“You love it.”

Santana gave a half nod. “I think maybe I do.”

“But I’m not changing my name.”

“Of course you’re changing your name. What’s the point of marrying me if you’re not going to become a Lopez?”

“Why am I the one changing my name?”

“Do you know how lame Santana Fabray sounds? And anyway, I’m like the butchest of the two of us so you should have my name.”

“Butch, please! You get a manicure every weekend.”

“I know how to change a tire. And the oil. Plus: I was a cheerleader.”

“So was I.”

“Yea, but I was a cheerleader _longer_. Which makes me more athletic, and athleticism totally makes me the dude.”

“I have a tongue ring and a tattoo.”

“Of Ryan Seacrest! And you took the tongue ring out!”

“You read fashion magazines!”

“You actually had a thing for Robert Pattinson!”

“I did not.”

“Oh, you so did.”

“I’m on top more.”

Santana blushed, licking her lips subconsciously. “Yea, well, that’s just because I worry about your back. I’m totally the real top; I just dominate from the bottom.”

“How does Quinn Lopez, Lucy Lopez, sound any better than Santana Fabray?”

“Are you kidding? Lucy Lopez is totally w _ay_ better. First it’s because it’s Lopez. Secondly, if you were to get a monogrammed shirt it would look like it says L.O.L.”

Quinn was honestly doubting her sanity. Did she really say she’d marry this woman? She rubbed at her temple. “What if we combine them?”

“Seriously, Q? You’re supposed to be all smart and that’s your solution? You want to make some poor child walk around with the name Fabrez or Lopray?”

“Err…right. What if we hyphenate it?”

“That’s so gay!”

“And marrying a woman isn’t?”

“Oh, point. Okay…but my name goes first.”

“Why does your name go first?”

“Because Lopez-Fabray sounds better than Fabray-Lopez,” Santana stated as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“Fabray-Lopez sounds much better,” Quinn insisted, saying so only because she didn’t want Santana to get her way.

Santana shrugged a shoulder. “Fabray-Lopez it is. God, you’re such a sucker, Quinn. No one’s going to bother with saying the Fabray. You totally just took my name!”

Santana did a little victory dance around the kitchen. It was so ridiculous, and so freaking cute, and Santana was still so absolutely naked, (and Quinn had just agreed to marry this girl, so it was her right anyway), that Quinn couldn’t help herself. She wrapped an arm around Santana’s forearm, roughly pulling Santana to her. Their lips slammed together almost painfully, joining together in a kiss that could only be described as nothing short of carnal.

Quinn felt Santana pull back her lips enough to smile into her own for a quick second before she started to kiss her back, a hand dropping to lewdly cup her ass. “I knew you’d see it my way,” Santana smirked.

Quinn was absolutely fed up with Santana. “Shut. UP,” Quinn grunted, biting down on Santana’s lip. It did the job because she stopped talking. Quinn quickly licked the spot she had bit to soothe the burn, and Santana’s tongue chased after hers, seeking contact. Quinn practically pushed Santana into the countertop, before she lifted her up, and sat her on the counter. Santana kicked her legs open, giving Quinn a front row seat to her glistening sex. “Well, well, Fabray,” Santana said seductively. “Now that you’ve got me here, what _are_ you going to do with me?”

Quinn licked her lips, and Santana tensed in eager anticipation thinking that Quinn was about to go down on her, but she didn’t. Quinn settled herself in between Santana’s legs, wrapping those sensuous appendages around her waist, Santana’s unclothed sex, pressed against her barely covered core. Santana moaned softly every time the bottom of the shorts hit her in just the right way. “What should I do?” Quinn teased.

“Anything you want, baby,” Santana returned. 

Quinn’s mouth came back down on hers, and Santana didn’t even try to fight for dominance, letting Quinn’s tongue lay claim to her mouth, tasting her thoroughly. Kissing, especially like this, wasn’t something they did often. Usually it was done just to speed them towards the end, and for sure they both knew exactly where this was going, but it wasn’t quite the same as any of those other times. Santana’s hands trailed up Quinn’s arms to her hair and neck, pulling her even closer to deepen the kiss. How had she never known how hot kissing Quinn was? Why didn’t they do this more often?

The answer came to her immediately: because it was intimate, and intimacy was one thing that they didn’t do. Santana was liking this, though. She was seriously thinking that she wouldn’t mind if this became their Saturday morning routine. Well, correction, she wouldn’t mind if this became their late Saturday morning routine cause it was still too freaking early.

Quinn watched Santana’s thoughts flicker in her eyes. Santana, seeing her stare, met her gaze. Their heated moment had temporarily passed; Quinn couldn’t even tell you when they stopped kissing. They took a moment to just enjoy being together like this. A short moment. Santana’s need became more pressing, and her hips started to rock slowly on the countertop, seeking out some needed friction. Quinn’s fingers crept down Santana’s torso, crawling over her abs until they slid between Santana’s legs. Santana’s legs parted for the finger that Quinn drew along the folds of Santana’s core, teasing.

$ “Quinn,” Santana pleaded. Before the word was fully out, Quinn slipped two fingers inside of her, coming across very little resistance because Santana was so freaking wet.

Quinn placed a very light finger onto Santana’s clit, eliciting a garbled groan from Santana, who bucked forward. “I want to watch you to fuck yourself,” Quinn purred. Santana’s hooded eyes, dark with lust, didn’t leave Quinn’s. She nodded, obediently rocking her hips slowly on Quinn’s fingers. Still maintaining eye contact, Quinn leaned forward to initiate another slow burning kiss, her lips slowly moving downward to lay claim to Santana’s neck. Santana started to throw her head back to give Quinn easier access, forgetting where she was sat. Before her head smacked against the counter though, Quinn placed a hand behind her head. When Santana’s head smacked into it, it caused the both of them to giggle at what had just happened, but Quinn’s hand didn’t move, and Santana never stopped moving against her.

It was hella sexy. Santana was just so freaking sexy, and Quinn realized that she never fully noticed before because she never allowed herself to. Things between them had always been temporary, and maybe they still were, but for the moment Santana was allowing her to claim some permanence, and Quinn was surprised by how much she was enjoying the thought.

Without a break in her movements, Santana leaned forward, and pulled Quinn’s shirt off, smiling at how hard her nipples were, how obvious Quinn’s arousal was. Quinn didn’t have much in the breast area, just a handful, but Santana wasn’t complaining. She knew how to work with what she had, and she knew how to make a woman feel appreciative of her skills. Quinn leaned into her caress, shuttering every time Santana’s fingernail scraped against her nipples.

Still slowly working herself on Quinn’s fingers, Santana slipped Quinn’s shorts down just far enough that she could slip a hand inside of them, using a steadying hand on Quinn’s back to pull her closer. When Santana’s fingers came in contact with Quinn’s heated core, Quinn wondered for a minute if she should feel embarrassed over how wet she was, but the thought had barely time to settle before Santana’s fingers were inside of her, working her over. Santana’s fingers kept pace with her own thrusting hips, her thumb casually flicking over Quinn’s clit every now and then.

It was an incredibly intimate moment. They moved in tandem, barely touching each other at any point other than their hands. Santana’s spare hand had moved and was stilled on Quinn’s breast, and Quinn’s was lightly touching Santana’s cheek. Nothing was said between them as they moved in the same rhythm, eyes staring into each other, quiet moans and gasps the only sounds that entered into the moment. 

Santana reached her climax first, and Quinn came tumbling down almost immediately after. It was perhaps one of the gentlest orgasms either had ever given or received and after, they both just stared at each other, their bare chests heaving as they both tried to regain their breath. Quinn wasn’t sure, but she was almost positive that something monumental had just happened. 

This gentle quiet lasted for maybe another minute or two before Santana jumped down from the counter. She pulled the shorts back up for Quinn. “So I can tell my mom now, right?”

Quinn’s head merely moved up and down in stunned agreement. “Awesome! She’ll be so happy, and now I no longer have to hear her ask me when I’m going to get on with it. I’m going to go take a shower.” Santana started to dash away, but paused for a moment to kiss Quinn on the cheek. She took two steps towards the bathroom before she paused, again, this time stilled by the sudden realization that she and Quinn were actually going to get married. Santana turned back towards Quinn, gave her ass a firm slap, and whispered ‘eggs’ into Quinn’s ear.

“I thought you were doing Saturday breakfasts,” Quinn protested, but Santana was already gone and had the shower running before the words were out. Dumbfounded, Quinn just kind of stood there until she did the only thing that she could. She went searching through Santana’s eggs for a frying pan, and made Santana her damn breakfast.

*

With a shit eating grin on her face, Santana waited as the call connected. “Go for Puck.”

“Hey, Puckster!” Santana greeted, silkily.

Santana could hear him shifting on the phone. “Lopez! What’s happening?”

“You nervous?”

“About the wedding? Nah, Shelly’s great. I can’t wait actually. You got your tux?”

Santana made sure her eye roll could be heard through the phone. “I told you already, I’m not wearing a freaking tux.”

“You’re my best man, San. How am I going to have a best man wearing a dress?”

“You’re breaking my heart, Puck, seriously,” Santana teased. “Hey, guess what?”

“What?”

“I got married last weekend! Congratulate me, I be a misses!”

Puck cursed. “Are you shitting me, Santana?”

Puck could hear her giggling through the phone. “Nope. Swear on my life. It was a spur of the moment kind of thing. We’re going to have a big reception after you get back from your honeymoon, but we went ahead and exchanged vows.”

“What girl was stupid er…I mean lucky enough to land your ass?”

“Har har, Puck, and yes,” her eyes fell on Quinn. “Her ass is really lucky, cause I’m a damn catch.” Both Puck and Quinn laughed. “You might know her, actually. She’s this really hot blonde-ish chick with fuck me hazel eyes named Quinn Fabray-Lopez.”

Santana wished that she could see his face because she could only imagine it over the phone. “Did you say Quinn?”

“Fabray-Lopez.”

“ _You_ married Quinn Fabray?”

“Lopez.”

“Like hell you did! Quinn’s not even a lesbian, and there’s no freaking way!”

“One second, Puck,” Santana covered the mouth piece. “Hey babe, come here?”

Santana turned on the speaker. “Hi, Noah,” Quinn greeted, giving him a smile even though he wouldn’t be able to see it.

“Tell me that San is lying out of her ass.”

“Unfortunately,” Santana kicked her, “Ouch. She’s not. We really got married.”

Santana picked up the phone, turning the speaker off. “And as I believe that you aren’t getting married until _next_ weekend, that means that I got married first, which makes you, sir, a loser, and me the winner. I will be expecting my payment in the upcoming months.”

“Fucking hell, Santana, did you seriously? You’re serious. You really married my baby mama?”

Santana nodded vigorously, smiling at Quinn who had an amused, and kind of stunned look on her face. It was the same expression she had been wearing ever since she agreed to marry Santana.

“I did.”

“This doesn’t count. We both know that you two are going to get divorced as soon as Shelly and I tie the knot, which doesn’t make this shit real.”

Santana’s expression softened, her eyes on Quinn. “No, I’m not,” she said seriously. “This might have come out of nowhere, but I’m serious. We’re forever.”

Quinn cocked an eye at Santana. Santana shook her head. “And I promise that we’re not going to take anything from your day, but I’m serious about you paying up!” she taunted.

She could almost see the pissed off look on Noah’s face. “Fuck you, Lopez.”

“You did, remember? But you still love me though, right?”

“Shit, you know I do.”

“Yep. I love you bro. See you soon, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I look forward to it.”

Santana hung up the phone, sitting it on the couch beside her. Quinn raised an eyebrow, tilting her head. “What was that about forever?” Santana shrugged. “Nothing much. Just Puck talking shit, you know how he is. He’s pissed, but not really.”

Quinn chuckled. Santana gestured. “Hey, so why are you over there all by yourself? Come cuddle with me.”

Quinn grunted. “You’re not going to be one of those clingy women who gets all sappy and what not are you? Cause I didn’t agree to that.”

“The fuck I’mma do that for?” Santana questioned. “I already got the women. I’m just feeling kind of cold and don’t want to get up to get a blanket.”

“Did I ever tell you that you’re so very charming, Santana?”

Santana’s head bobbed. “Nope, but I already know this.”

Quinn shifted from the love seat to the couch, cuddling into Santana’s side. Santana put an arm around her.

“Santana?”

“Yeah, babe.”

“How much was the bet for?” Quinn was already envisioning what they could spend the money on for the reception.

Santana nuzzled against Quinn’s cheek, causing her to laugh. “Oh, that. A dollar.”

Quinn pulled away to look at her…wife. “What? We did this for a dollar!”

“Well, no,” Santana said. “ _You_ did it for free and because I’m freaking awesome. _I_ did it for a dollar.”

Quinn wasn’t sure if she wanted to strangle Santana, or just laugh at the absurdity of the whole thing. “You asked me to marry you over a dollar bet?”

Santana only shrugged casually. “Well like I said, you’re really hot. Besides I really, _really_ hate to lose.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I will be re-uploading this story a couple of chapters at a time, as a favor to a few fans who requested it, but I am asking for a favor in return. Like a week ago, I started a new Twitter account: Les Bi Lit at AllyCat_FTW, and I am trying to build up an audience for my writing. I'm currently in Grad school getting my MFA, and I'm trying to build up a platform for all of my amazingly amazing lesbian love stories and novels I'm trying to bless the world with. I'm asking for your support. If you ever read and liked anything I've written, if you've ever read and liked anything, anyone's written, and you understand how hard it is trying to raise the platform and capital to produce queer friendly content, Please follow me on the Twitter.


	2. Here Comes the Bride

Santana chewed on the side of her pinkie fingernail while she waited for her mom to pick up the phone. Every few seconds a hand dropped to pet (really, there was no other words for it), the head of the girl that was lying beside her. Quinn wasn’t exactly cuddled up to her. She was lying on her side, her arm propping her head up. If she moved just a few inches closer, they would be touching, but as it was they only touched when Santana’s hand brushed her head.

Finally there was a hiccup on the phone, and Mrs. Lopez’s voice came through. “Hola, carina, how are you?”

“Mami,” Santana said excitedly, bouncing in the bed at the sound of her mother’s voice. She put the phone on speaker. “Guess what?”

“You got a promotion!”

“No.”

“You’re treating me to a cruise?”

“Um…no.”

Maribel gasped. “I’m a grand mom!”

Santana shook her head in exaggeration and Quinn laughed. “No, mami, but you’re getting warmer. I’m getting married!” There was a moment of expected silence on the other end of the line, but when two minutes passed and Mrs. Lopez had yet to say anything, Santana’s smile fell. “Mami?”

“Santana Lopez! When I gave you my mother’s ring, it was to place on the hand of the woman you were going to spend the rest of your life with, not some _ramera barata_ you met in a bar.”

“Mom!” Santana protested. “I didn’t give abuela’s ring to some floozy!”

“Well you haven’t called home about any one recently, so she can’t be anyone respectable if you cannot tell your own mother about her. How could you do this to me? How could you do this to mi corazón? How could you do this to Quinn?” Quinn quirked an eyebrow. “That poor girl. You’ve been stringing her along for years now. Did you think about how she is going to feel?” She moved to take the phone off of speaker, but Quinn beat her to it. She grabbed the phone from the bed, and held it out of her reach. “Your father and I did not raise you-,”

“Mami!” Santana hissed.

_Give me the phone,_ she mouthed at Quinn. Quinn shook her head, grinning. “-to be some lady of the night. Just because you’re gay doesn’t absolve you from matters of common decency, and a decent woman admits to it if she has feelings-,”

“Mom,” Santana moaned. “Please stop talking!”

“I will _not_ ,” Mrs. Lopez said stubbornly. “It’s time I’ve said it! Santana, I have-,”

“Quinn’s on the phone right now, mami. You’re on speaker!”

“I’m…on-,”

“Hello, Mrs. Lopez!” Quinn called cheekily.

“Quinn! “ Mrs. Lopez said eagerly, recognizing Quinn’s voice. “Is that really you, sweetie?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Oh, it’s lovely to hear from you again. And don’t call me ma’am. You’ve been putting up with enough of my daughter’s shenanigans that you can call me mom, you hear?”

A stunned look crossed Quinn’s face. “Okay, _mom_. What was that you were saying about feelings?”

Santana scowled at Quinn. “Mami, por favor, te lo ruego,” she pleaded.

It was almost as if they could see her wink through the phone. “I’ll tell you later,” Mrs. Lopez promised. “What’s this I hear about Santanita getting married?”

“That’s what I was calling to tell you, mami. I _proposed_ to _Quinn._ ”

“Oh thank you, God.” Santana’s mom said. “I was totally beginning to worry. Judy’s going to be pissed.” Mrs. Lopez sounded absolutely giddy about that fact.

“Tell me about it,” Quinn mumbled.

Somehow Maribel caught it. “Oh, not that you’re getting married to a woman, Quinn, she already knew that that was going to happen.” Santana pointed a finger at her. _I told you so_ , she mouthed. “So when’s the big day?”

“Weekend after next.”

“That’s so soon!” she protested.

“We don’t want some big to do,” Santana said, and beside her Quinn pouted. Santana rolled her eyes before leaning down and kissing her. “Until after Puck’s wedding. We figure we can have a big ceremony then, or whatever. Next weekend though, we’re just going to have a little ceremony. Just the parents, Brittany, and Mercedes.”

“Are you sure, baby? I’ve got an emergency wedding kit on standby. You’d be surprised at what I can put together in two weeks.”

“I’ll let you go crazy for the reception,” Santana promised. “We gotta go, mami, we still have to call Judy.”

“Okay. Hasta luega, mijas. Te queiro.”

“Te amo, mami, even though you embarrassed me in front of my wife.”

“Get used to it,” Maribel laughed a very Santana laugh and hung up the phone. Santana glared at Quinn. “You are so dead,” she promised her.

“So, what is this about stringing poor Quinnie along?”

“Call Judy,” Santana commanded.

With a wide grin, Quinn picked up her cell phone and called her mother. “Do you think your mom was serious about my mom knowing?”

“Barbie, it’s practically written on you in neon letters that were a big fab gay!”

Quinn pointed a finger in Santana’s face. “Don’t call me Barbie, Lopez.” Quinn paused. “Why am I telling _my_ mother again?”

“Because you want her to be there, and stuff?”

“I’m not entirely sold on whether or not _I_ want to be there.”

Santana rolled her eyes. “You’re totally breaking my heart, babe.”

“Whatever, we both know you don’t have one.”

“Dial,” Santana hissed.

“Already…oooh, hi mom!” With a glare from Santana, she put the phone on speaker, sitting it beside her on the bed, out of reach.

“Hello Quinn,” Judy said, gaily, her voice sounding louder than Mrs. Lopez’s had.

Quinn sighed. “Are you drunk, mother?”

“Of course I’m not drunk, Lucy,” Judy said disapprovingly. “I don’t walk around with a cocktail glass in my hand.”

“Anymore,” Quinn muttered.

“So dear, to what do I owe the pleasure of hearing your voice?”

Santana laughed. “Well, um, mom, I was just calling to tell you that me and Santana decided to get married. Weekend after next. We want you to be there.”

“Oh, fucking damn that Maribel!”

Well that was not the reaction either girl was expecting. Santana’s head jumped up. Oh god, was she about to have to get into a fight with her fiancé’s mother?

“Quinn, don’t you think that this is something you should spend some more time thinking about? Like maybe a year?”

“Mother!” Quinn gasped.

“Well, this is really sudden. I just want to make sure that you are sure you want to do this. Are you really sure?”

_No._ “Of course I’m sure, mother.”

“Okay, forget a year, how about just a few months? This is just so sudden Quinnie.”

“We’re getting married the weekend after next.”

Judy Fabray sighed heavily. “Well, fine, then, but I just want you to know Maribel is going to be impossible to deal with for the next couple of months. I hope you’re happy.”

“What’re you talking about, mother?”

Judy paused, and then surprised them again when she laughed. “Maribel and I had a bet going that you two wouldn’t get married before you were 30. You just lost me $10,000, Quinn.”

“What the hell is going on in my life?” Quinn muttered. “And why is everyone betting on it?”

Santana merely laughed beside her. “Well, I am so sorry to hear that, mother. We were just calling to let you know that we’re getting married next weekend, and we wanted the family to be there.”

“Well, you may as well call your father and tell him,” Judy instructed. “He’ll want to be there, too. He’ll cry the whole time, but he’ll want to be there.”

“Mom, I don’t think-”

“Oh, honey, he already knows! We’re your parents. Why do you think Russell always insisted you wear dresses? You know what he said when you told us you were pregnant? He said ‘At least that means that you’re not gay’. Ha!”

She and Santana laughed. Quinn wanted to die. Like she seriously wanted to die, right then and there. How she was still living and breathing was beyond her.

“Boy was he wrong about that!” Santana chuckled. Quinn glared at her, but she only smiled in return as she shifted on the bed. _What’re you doing?_ Quinn mouthed nervously.

 _Payback._ Quinn had only a moment to question what exactly that meant before she felt Santana settling in between her legs. 

“Those were my same thoughts,” Judy went on, as Santana pulled down Quinn’s panties, throwing them halfway across the room.

“Santana,” Quinn hissed, trying to shut her legs, but Santana easily held them open.

“I only wish though, honey, that you could have figured out all of this before you went and had the baby.”

“Mm hmmm…” Quinn hummed softly. Santana’s tongue was working its way through her inner folds.

“But all that’s in the past!” Judy went on cheerfully. “And now my baby girl’s getting married!” Santana drew her tongue slowly along Quinn’s slit. “Isn’t it amazing?” Santana drew back enough to say before she attached her lips onto Quinn’s clit, slightly nibbling at the little mound of bundled nerves.

“Do you think that Frannie will be able to find the time to make it?” Honestly, Frannie was the last thing on Quinn’s mind at the moment. “But she’s got the boys, and they can be a handful.”

Santana enjoyed seeing how Quinn’s body trembled beneath the ministrations of her tongue. The fingers of her free hand played on Quinn’s abs, lightly tickling her.

“Are you sure you want a small ceremony? I know Maribel has an emergency wedding kit…”

Somehow Santana managed to translate an eye roll into movements between Quinn’s legs. Quinn had to bite back on the moan that was threatening to escape. “I told mom,” lick, “that she can,” nibble, “go crazy,” tongue thrust, “as soon as Noah’s wedding’s over.”

Quinn’s face was red from her effort to stay silent. Santana looked up, watching the emotions flicker across Quinn’s face. _Should I stop_? Santana teased. The look that Quinn shot her back clearly said, _only if you want to die._ Santana added her fingers to the equation, and Quinn’s mouth opened in surprise. “Oh.”

“Did you say something, Quinnie?” Judy questioned.

Quinn took a few breaths through her nose. “No, mother, I…was…umm…there’s so…much to do!”

The last exhalation came from surprise when Santana gave her ass a squeeze.

“Quinn, honey, you sound flustered, is everything alright?”

“You do, Quinn,” Santana agreed. “Babe, I hope you don’t come down with something before the wedding.” She scissored her fingers inside of Quinn, and used her thumb to tease her clit since her mouth was no longer on it.

“Yes, that would be awful.”

Santana could feel that Quinn was close to giving out. “Judy, we’re going to go. I think I’m going to make some soup for Quinn.”

“Well, you two have _fun_ ,” Judy said, and both Santana and Quinn were certain from the way that Judy said that, that she was well aware of what both girls were up to and was highly amused by it.

“You fuck…” Quinn started to say, but as soon as the call was ended, she crashed. “Er…,” she panted. “I hate you.”

Santana gave her clit a few teasing flicks. “Really?”

Quinn didn’t answer. Santana kissed her way up Quinn’s body, letting her tongue drag along between the canyons of her breasts. She kissed soft feather light kisses on her collarbone, and paused waiting for permission to actually kiss her on the lips. Quinn nodded, and moaned when she tasted herself on Santana’s lips. She found herself holding Santana closer, her tongue bravely adventuring into her mouth to collect it all.

They hadn’t done this before. Sure, they’d gone down on each other, but they had never kissed afterwards. She had never spent the day after in Santana’s bed, cuddling into her. She had never rested her head on Santana’s chest, and listened to the sound of her heart beating. Or heard it accelerate when she reached for Santana’s hand, lifting it to her lips. Santana’s eyes fell on her and watched as Quinn licked herself off of Santana’s fingers. She moaned softly at the sight and feel of her tongue moving in between her digits.

“Mmm….you must really like how you taste.”

Quinn gave a soft sound of approval. “I like how I taste on you,” she purred. “Do you want to know how you taste on me?”

She would have loved to know that, but she really wasn’t looking for any reciprocation, especially since it meant them moving from where they were now. She tightened her hold on Quinn. “Maybe later,” she said. “I just want to hold you right now.”

And those words had certainly never been uttered before. She pressed herself further into Santana and let her do just that.

* * *

Santana was nervous, but then again she couldn’t remember a time when Quinn didn’t make her nervous. She used to get nervous when they stood in line for confession because rather than skip it or actually tell the truth, Quinn would make up lies, and she worried that hellfire would rain down on her. She was nervous when they started high school because all the guys would be all over her, and Quinn could be too trusting and downright naïve. She worried about her every time she got thrown up in the air, because honestly she was too heavy to be a flier, too heavy, really, to be at the top of the pyramid, but in their cheerleading world being on the top was more of a status symbol than actually logical.

It made her nervous when she started dating, because Quinn didn’t have a strong male figure in her life, and she looked for the wrong things when it came to men. She worried when she got pregnant, because she knew that no matter what happened, Quinn would be forever changed by it. It made her nervous whenever Quinn bit, because she knew that she had to bite back, which resulted in some epic fights between them, and from the middle of sophomore year on, anytime Quinn had come up to her in the hallway, it had made her nervous for reasons that Santana had never been able to explain.

Now she was nervous because they had never managed to be everything to each other. They had never quite managed to perfect a relationship where they were both friends and lovers. Quinn had never seemed to manage to open up to her unless there was a man (or that one short time when Quinn had entertained the thought of a girl) in between them. They only talked to each other, had serious conversations, when Quinn was with someone else. When they were back ‘on’, the times for normal conversations died. They might have gone as far as to get together for lunch every now and then, but most of the times it was more like lunch and a quickie. They had never even gone on a date. And now they were getting married.

“All you have to do is say I do, Lopez,” she reminded herself. Even now she didn’t have to be everything to Quinn because Quinn wasn’t looking for everything; Quinn was just looking for great sex and companionship. That was easy enough to supply, she had been doing it for nearly a decade now. When they got bored with each other, they’d figure something out, and when they _really_ got bored with each other, Santana would probably have to come up with some really good reasons for why Quinn shouldn’t leave her…or one of them would probably cheat. Most likely it’d be Quinn. All of Quinn’s high school relationships had ended because of cheating. None of Santana’s had for the simple fact that the only relationship she’d ever been in was with Brittany, and that ended in a fireball in Lesbos.

On the big day, which wasn’t even really that because the four of them, she, Quinn, Mercedes, and Brittany, had just finished having lunch together at a nothing diner a block away from Santana’s apartment. Santana was lingering, so Mercedes was lingering with her, even though Mercedes was there for Quinn. “You know, if you back out now, it’ll be 10 more years before Quinn has the nerve to try this again.”

Santana looked up and over at Mercedes, surprised that she was there, and by her words. “Who said anything about backing out?” Santana questioned. “When have I ever backed down from anything?”

“I’m just saying,” Mercedes said. The two of them watched the backs of the two girls that were a few yards in front of them. “You and your blondes,” Mercedes joked.

“Quinn’s not really a blonde. She just plays one on TV.” she laughed at her own joke. “Why do you say that? You know, about not getting married again? Quinn’s not in love. She’s just going through with this cause I asked. It’s like a challenge, and you know Quinn never learned how to back down from them.”

Mercedes rolled her eyes. “Yeah, okay, let’s say that’s true. Even if she’s marrying you because of that, you’ve known her for, how long?”

Santana bit down on her lip, thinking it over. She had met Quinn at the end of 7th grade when she was still Lucy. “16 years.”

“Okay, so you tell me, how well does she bounce back from things?”

“Hey, I don’t know anyone stronger than Quinn.”

“No one’s saying that she’s not strong. I asked how well would you that say she bounces back.” She started to count off on her fingers. “She still carries Beth around with her inside, she was raw enough to let Noah back into her heart because he made himself available, she refuses to make amends with Russell even though he’s practically begging to come back into her life, and the two of you have been fucking, pardon my French, for the past 9 years without having anything nailed down. Would high school Quinn have allowed that? No. Quinn gave up on the idea of 2.5 kids and a white picket fence when Finn dumped her and she hasn’t picked it back up since then. She might be strong, but it takes her an awfully long time to repair herself.”

Quinn and Brittany were stopped at the corner waiting for Mercedes and Santana to catch up. “What’re you two back there talking about?” Quinn questioned.

“That ass,” Santana said immediately, “and how we were wondering if you would like some fries with that shake.”

Quinn gave her infamous eye roll. “You’re such a perv.” 

“You know you like it,” Santana returned.

Once they crossed the street, they dropped back again. This time, Santana really did watch Quinn’s ass because it was really, really nice.

“You really think that she’s into me?” Santana questioned.

Mercedes gave her a constipated look. “You two are idiots, but if you really don’t know the answer to that, I dare you to flirt with someone in front of her, and see what happens.” Mercedes considered her words. “Only…not Brittany.” Santana’s eyes moved from the ass of her fiancé, to her high school ex, to the solemn look on Mercedes face. “That would actually just break her heart.”

* * *

Four and a half hours later, Quinn and Santana were standing underneath a pergola, waiting for the pastor of the Unitarian church on the corner to get off the phone with her husband, who was apparently in the middle of a crisis with their son. The ceremony was set to start in five minutes, and Quinn didn’t know if it would be considered rude to remind the Reverend. Santana was shifting from one leg to the other, watching joggers run by. She was wearing a simple peasant gown that Quinn was sure Brittany had picked out, her hair falling down around her shoulders in beautiful waves. She looked like an angel.

For like the first time, ever, Quinn’s dress was actually the shorter of the two, but only because Santana’s came all the way down to her ankles. Quinn’s hung just down to her knees, and was a sort of faded olive green, that was far prettier than it sounded, and brought out the greens in her eyes. To be honest, she hadn’t expected Santana to dress up, and was pleasantly surprised to see that she had. Santana’s dress had pockets, and with three minutes to go, Santana pulled out their rings. “You might want this,” she said, trying on both before she pulled the one that fit her finger off and handed it to Quinn.

The light hit the rings in just the right way, and Quinn noticed the inscription on the inside. “Really, Santana? SOS? You had SOS engraved on our rings?”

Santana smiled. “That’s for you, babe. I figured you’d make one last appeal for divine intervention before we do this.”

If Quinn wasn’t so worried about her hair coming undone, she would have shaken her head. “I can’t wrap my head around you, you know that?”

“That’s a good thing, right?”

Quinn just curled her lips because there was really no point in doing anything else. “What’s 6:3 mean? Coordinates?”

“That’s the odds Vegas gives us. Hmm…I forgot to reduce, oh well.”

Reverend Carmichael came over at that moment. “Alright is every one present?” She took in the two brides and the six witnesses. Maribel and Judy were standing beside each other, looking teary. Russell looked like something had died, Brittany looked like she had seen a butterfly, and Dr. Lopez tugged at his tie. “Yep, all here and accounted for,” Santana joked.

“Okay, than shall we get started?” Santana gave a sideways glance at an impassive Quinn. There was a nod. “The most wonderful of all things in life is the discovery of another human being with whom one's relationship has a growing depth, beauty and joy as the years increase. This inner progressiveness of love between two human beings is a most marvelous thing; it cannot be found by looking for it or by passionately wishing for it. It is a sort of Divine accident, and the most wonderful of all things in life.

“Santana and Quinn, I remind you that marriage is a precious gift, a lifelong commitment, and a challenge to love one another more completely each and every day. Please join hands and look into each other's eyes.”

They followed Reverend Carmichael’s instructions. “Santana, please repeat after me.” Reverend Carmichael gave her the script, and Santana repeated it.

“I, Santana Lopez take thee, Quinn Fabray, as my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part.”

It was Quinn’s turn. “I Quinn Fabray, take Santana Lopez to be my wife. I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad time, in sickness and in health. I will love you and honor you all the days of my life.”

They exchanged rings.

“Santana, repeat after me: with this ring, I thee wed, and forever pledge my devotion.” Once the words were spoken, Reverend Carmichael turned to Quinn, and they repeated the process.

“Now, please join hands.”

Santana gave Quinn’s hand a quick squeeze.

“By the act of joining hands you solemnly promise to love, honor, comfort, and cherish each other so long as you both shall live. Therefore, in accordance with the law and by virtue of the authority vested in me by the law I do pronounce you married.

“You came to me as two single people and you will now leave as a married couple, united to each other by the binding contract you have just entered. The best of good fortune to both of you.”

Quinn let out a breath, Santana gave her a soft smile.

“You may now kiss the bride.”

It was Quinn who lunged forward first, but it was a chaste kiss that she placed on Santana’s lips. “Well, I guess its official now. Let’s go consummate.”

This was whispered, but apparently they failed to notice that their guests had moved closer. “How about we do dinner first, and then you guys do that?”

Quinn and Santana looked at each other. “I guess that works too.”

Judy looked at her ex. “Russ, you coming?”

He had a look like something had died and he just caught a whiff of the smell. “Why not?” he questioned. He then proceeded to give Santana the world’s most awkward hug. “It’ll be my treat,” he added. Quinn was just as shocked, but she laughed at the stunned look on her wife’s face. And whether it was planned, or just the moment gave over to it, Mercedes and Santana started singing _Their Can be Miracles_ , in a performance that surely would have made Whitney and Mariah proud. They drew a small crowd of people who were wondering why two idiots were singing at the top of their lungs in the middle of the park, and the answer was the same that prompted this event in the first place, ‘why not’.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back when this was first posted, I had a lot of people ask what is SOS 6:3. I didn't answer because it was supposed to come up later in the sequel, but it didn't. Song of Solomon 6:3 is: I am my beloved's, and my beloved is mine: he feedeth among the lilies.


	3. The Wedding Crashers

“A French maid? Really? That’s so overplayed!”

“Hey, forgive him, he’s still a young guy,” Puck said, defending his little brother.

“Obviously. I say get the maid costume for Shelly, and have her do a private tease for you.” The door opened, and Quinn walked through.

Puck laughed. “I don’t think that she’s that kind of girl.”

Santana watched Quinn kick off her shoes at the door and go into the kitchen, before giving Santana a kiss and curling up on the end of the couch, a book in her hand. It amazed Santana that after more than 8 years of hooking up, Quinn had never seemed as much at home around her as she did in the past two weeks. I mean, seriously, Santana had forgotten that Quinn still knew how to read once college was over. 

Santana stretched her legs out, resting them in Quinn’s lap. When Santana saw that Quinn was holding a beer she was momentarily hopeful, but Quinn popped the top and started drinking it herself. Quinn gave her feet a squeeze, before offering the bottle to Santana.

“You still there, Lopez?”

“Yea, I’m here. Quinn just walked in.”

“You started drooling, didn’t you?”

“Shut it, Puckerman.”

“Well, anyway, like I was saying, I was thinking naughty cop instead.”

Santana smiled. “That’d be pretty hot.” Her eyes took in her wife who was reading a few feet from her. “Oh, or sexy school teacher.”

Quinn looked up from her book a questioning look on her face. Santana shook her head. _Guy talk_ , she mouthed.

“I already had my sexy school teacher, remember?”

“Okay, that somewhat incestuous relationship doesn’t count.”

“What about my Jewish princess?”

Santana considered. “That’s sexy school girl. You know, I think I’m far enough from the situation that I can admit that she wasn’t _that_ bad looking.”

Santana was unaware that Quinn was no longer paying attention to her book. “Whatever, you know Berry was hot.”

“Ooh, how about if we get like an Arabian princess? You know like a Jasmine look-alike?”

“Shelly would kick my ass. You know she’s Mediterranean right?”

“Was Jasmine Mediterranean?”

“Are you seriously asking _me_ the race of a Disney princess?”

“Good point. I still say you should go with the sexy school teacher.”

“What the hell are you two talking about?” Quinn demanded. Santana looked over at her, covering the mouth piece.

“What stripper to get for Puck’s bachelor party.”

“What’d you say, Lopez?”

“Nothing, Quinn asked me something.”

“Did you say a stripper?”

“It’s a Bachelor Party babe. You know, last night of singledom.”

Quinn frowned. “I don’t think I like the idea of some woman shaking her goods in your face.”

“Goods, really? Who says goods? We’re not going to a strip joint, it’s going to be a private show, and Puck’s the birthday boy, so it’s not like she’s going to be paying attention to me anyway.”

“What, Lopez, you giving up a free lap dance? I mean you didn’t get a party before you tied the knot, so I figure it’s overdue. We could probably work something out.”

“Wait, I’d get one, too?”

“No sketch bimbo is going to give you a lap dance,” Quinn said.

Puck laughed through the phone. “Oh, shut up, Puck!”

“Hey, you’re the one who mentioned that we were getting a stripper in front of your wife, who just happens to be Quinn Fabray.”

“Lopez.”

“I mean, even I’m not stupid. She’s glaring at you right now, isn’t she?”

She was. “It’s just a dance, Quinn,” she attempted to explain.

“Oh, so you’d be cool if I gave Puck a strip tease, ‘cause it _is_ just dancing, right?”

Puck apparently heard her. “Quinn’s giving me a strip tease. Oh hell yeah!”

Santana felt like she was being bombarded on all sides. “No, she’s not, Puck. And babe, I swear you’re making a big deal out of nothing.”

“Really?” Quinn demanded. “So it’d be alright if Shelly had some hunk of man flesh at her party and he decided that he wanted to give me a ride?”

At the thought of some muscular man shaking his junk in front of Quinn her nose curled. “No, that’s not cool. Not at all.”

“But it’s cool for you?”

Santana rubbed her temple. “Now you’re being all confusing! Puck, hold on a sec. Quinn’s being weird.”

Santana pushed the mute button. “I’m not being weird,” Quinn hissed.

“Remember when you said…about the threesome? And I’m not even going to have sex with the woman, I’m just, you know, going to look.”

“So you’re telling me that you’d rather see some nasty girl who takes off her clothes for money shake it for you, than to watch your wife do it?”

“No, I didn’t say that at all, it’s a Bachelor’s-,” her protest was cut off when Quinn started to unbutton her blouse. Quinn stood up for a second, to let her skirt fall to the ground, before she straddled Santana. “You want some, disgusting, probably diseased infested body that isn’t as in shape as this, grinding up against you?”

Santana took her phone off mute. “Puck, I gotta go, there’s an ass in my hands.” Santana was just able to end the call before Quinn took the phone from her hands, and threw it onto a pillow.

“Is that what you want? Some other body?”

“N-no,” Santana stuttered as Quinn started to rock into her. Quinn reached behind her and undid her bra, tossing it onto Santana’s face. “You’d rather have a look but don’t touch girl, who probably has pimples running down her back, and cankles getting you hot rather than this blonde bombshell right in front of you?”

Santana forgot how this transaction had even started. She vaguely recalled something about Puck and a stripper. Quinn arched her back, thrusting her cleavage in Santana’s face, before rolling off the couch. “Suit yourself,” Quinn remarked. “Enjoy your stripper!”

“Quinn!” Santana whined.

Quinn locked herself in the bathroom. “Damn it!” Santana hissed. Being married sucked!

* * *

“Puck’s getting married…oh…puck’s getting married, whoa oh, who would have thought that the man with the cock, went to the store and bought, a ring. Forget the ice bergs melting in the north, and the snow in the South, Puck’s getting married, and he’s bringing down the house…oh, Puck’s getting married, whoa oh, Puck’s…”

“Santana!” Quinn shouted. Santana’s mouth fell open mid-sing, and she took her eyes off the road to look at her wife. “Please,” Quinn begged. “Shut up!” Quinn had pretty much hit the end of her rope. She had sat through Santana singing _Another One Bites the Dust_ to the theme of _Going to the Chapel_ , as well as _A Woman Needs a Maid, Run For your Life, It’s the End of the World as We Know It,_ and _two_ rounds of _Home Boy’s Getting Hitched_ a Santana Fabray-Lopez (well really just a Santana Lopez, cause it was written before they got hitched)original song. Sorry, but she just couldn’t handle anymore of Santana’s singing. 

“What crawled in your twat and died?” Santana mumbled, turning on the radio. She couldn’t help but to sing though, “Wife is kind of cranky, should have had some hanky panky, ‘fore we left. She’s staring daggers at me, I pretend I don’t see, her evil, hurtful, glare of death.”

Quinn sat up in the seat, very neatly folded her hands in her lap, and concentrated very hard on her breathing. This was one of her Santana management techniques. She was learning a whole lot of them. Apparently, getting married to your booty call has some unintended side effects, and Quinn was sure that if she wasn’t continuously dying her hair blonde, her wife was going to turn her gray.

In a much calmer voice Quinn questioned, “Don’t you think that it’s a little bit inappropriate for you to be singing anti-marriage songs while sitting beside your wife?”

Santana paused in her singing the lyrics of whatever song was on the radio. “Why?”

“Because you’re married now.”

“Huh, I keep forgetting that,” Santana responded, and went back to singing along with the radio. Quinn located her iPod, and plugged up her ears to block out Santana’s voice, although she had to admit that every single one of the songs that Santana had annoyingly sung had been fantastic. She went through one song alone before she thought _what the hell_ , and turned off the radio. She could see Santana start to protest, but was stopped when Quinn opened her mouth and started to sing to a rockabilly beat, “My baby’s daddy’s getting married, and I think it’s kind of scary, and I know I’m kind of wary, too. Cause the girl’s name is Shelly, when his daughter’s mama’s Shelby, and she’s not an Asian named Woo.”

The sideways glance and smile that Santana gave her made her feel as if joining Santana in singing made-up wedding hits instead of being moody on her side of the car was the right decision.

Santana clapped. “Shelby Woo…nice reference to irrelevant 90s television shows there, baby!”

Quinn fake bowed. “Thank you, I thought you would like it.”

Quinn continued to make up more lyrics off of the top of her head, and only stopped when she realized that their car had suddenly come to a halt. Quinn looked up and saw that Santana had pulled off down a side road. “What-,”

Santana’s seat belt went shooting up towards the door. “God, you’re so hot,” Santana said, moments before climbing over the center console, and straddling her wife. Santana’s lips were on her, and her fingers were seeking out a way underneath her clothes before Quinn even had the chance to process what was going on. Quinn’s hands went scrambling to undo the seat belt that was holding her back at the same time spreading her legs as far as she could in the limited space.

Santana gave a throaty chuckle. “My, aren’t we eager.”

“Just shut up and get on with it,” Quinn instructed.

Yep, she definitely made the right choice.

* * *

They arrived at the hotel around three o’clock in the afternoon. Santana bounded from the car, bouncing on her feet. “Come on, Quinn!”

“Remind me again, how old are you?”

“29,” Santana said. “What’s that got to do with you being so slow?” Quinn got out of the car but didn’t otherwise move. Santana looked over at her. “What’re you waiting for babe? Get your bags, let’s go!”

Quinn tapped her foot. “Aren’t you going to carry them?”

Santana’s eyes narrowed. “Why would I do that?”

Quinn tossed her hair over her shoulders. “Aren’t you the one who claims that you are the butch one?”

“I already told you, I don’t have to try: I already got you.”

Quinn just stood there. Santana giggled, shook her head, and kissed Quinn on the cheek. “I’ll carry them, but only because I know me flexing my muscles gets you wet.”

Quinn took the garment bag from Santana, and left her to carry the other three bags into the hotel. Santana got on a trolley, and hopped on it along with the bags. “Push me!”

Quinn looked around to see who was seeing how childish her wife was acting. “Santana get off of that,” she hissed.

“You going to make me?”

Quinn covered her face. “I swear I can’t take you anywhere.”

“Am I being bad, Quinn?” Santana stuck her behind out. “Do I need to be punished?”

At a particularly scathing look from Quinn and a harsh tug on her arm, Santana got off the trolley and they made it to the elevator, heading upstairs to their room. “You shouldn’t frown so much, Quinn. You’re going to get wrinkles.”

“You do realize that you are the cause of them, right?”

“Really?” Santana’s lips curled up. “You know what’s a good stress reliever?”

Quinn leaned back on her elbows on the bed, watching as Santana started to undo her jeans. “Is sex the only thing you think about?”

Santana didn’t answer. Instead she selected a song on her iPod, turned the speaker’s up as far as they would go, and proceeded to do a strip tease until she was in nothing else but her bra and underwear. She reached over Quinn, hovering over her. Her hand grabbed for the garment bag that had been sat higher up on the bed. “Now who’s thinking about sex, Fablo? We’ve got the rehearsal dinner. I’m just getting ready.”

With that Santana whipped the bag around Quinn, making sure it didn’t hit her, and disappeared into the bathroom.

An hour later, Santana was dressed, and had her hair done, and Quinn had ‘freshened up’. Quinn was a little upset because they had had plenty of time for a quickie, but Santana had left her hanging, and the thought of Puck and Santana in the same suite sent her head aching.

Puck had a suite two floors above them, and when they got to it, Santana pounded out a rhythm on the door.

“Has to be Santana,” she heard Jake say before the door was swung open. Santana entered the room with her arms spread in a ‘Here I am’ gesture. “Okay, Puck, this is the best you get, so tell me now if this is good enough for you.”

A huge grin spread over Puck’s face at the sight of Santana. She was wearing a white cocktail jacket, with black lapels, a white blouse, and a vest that matched Jake and Young’s vests, but instead of tuxedo pants she was wearing a black skirt, and a killer set of heels.

Puck let out a whistle. “That’s so hot. Oh my God, is that the outfit from Sectionals? Lopez, you _do_ love me!” He wrapped her in his arms, swinging her around in the air.

“I don’t love you, the misses just never throws anything away.”

Quinn trailed in behind Santana. “Don’t call me the misses,” she said. 

Santana rolled her eyes. “You see what I have to deal with,” she whispered to Puck.

“I heard that,” Quinn remarked.

“Of course you did,” Santana replied. “Oh, hey, while you’re here, show Puck the rings.”

With an eye roll Quinn lifted her finger so Puck could see that she was, in fact, wearing an engagement and wedding ring. A similar band rested on Santana’s hand. Puck looked at their matching jewelry in disgust. “Well, shit, you really did it, didn’t you?”

“Quinn was begging me,” Santana winked at her, “for it.”

Puck turned to Quinn and held out his arms for her. “Hi, Baby Mama!” It was only because there was a warm spot in her heart for him that Quinn didn’t allow herself to be irritated.

“Noah.”

“Oh, hey Lopez, before I forget, here.” He tossed Santana a ring box. “That’s Shelly’s ring. _Don’t_ lose it.”

Santana rolled her eyes. “I think I can keep a ring for a day.” Santana opened the box and looked at the ring, pulling it out to read the inscription inside. “Ani ledodi v’dodi li, haRo’eh baShushanim.”

“You’ve been practicing,” Puck said, clearly impressed.

Santana gave a quick look at Quinn. “Of course, you know I don’t do shit halfway.”

“Oh yeah, that reminds me, I know you and baby mama have met Jake,” Quinn smiled at the younger Puckerman. “But I don’t think either of you have met my fellow airman and other groomsman, Young.”

Young stepped forward, looking very soldiery even though he wasn’t in uniform, and didn’t even have a buzz cut. He was about the same height as Noah, and just as nicely built with green eyes, and light brown hair. He was the kind of guy the word handsome applied to. “Nice to meet you, ma’am,” he nodded to Quinn. “Sir.” This last part was directed to Santana, and Young, Puck, and Jake laughed. “Sorry,” Young said quickly, “he told me to say that.”

Santana punched Puck in the arm. “Once an ass, always an ass, right Puckerman?”

“Well, I know how much you hate change, Lopez. Least I thought you did, but then you went and married Quinn. Hey Young, can you believe that I once dated both of these hotties, and now they’re married? To each other!”

Young gave them both a look over, but the smile that he gave wasn’t a leer. “Congratulations on finding a partner that complements you so well,” Young complimented.

“Whoa,” Santana said, momentarily shocked. “Are you sure you’re friends with Puck?” The room shared a laugh at Puck’s (and really all of their) expense.

They had little time to get to catch up before they had to head over to the church. Puck had what he and Shelly were calling a ‘fusion’ wedding, with aspects of a traditional Hebrew wedding, and a traditional Christian one. Because of that, they ran through the ceremony four times (twice for Puck, twice for Shelly) so the two of them didn’t see each other. After the rehearsal, Puck’s friends and family headed over to Manicotti’s Italian restaurant for dinner where they had the whole back room to their selves.

It was interesting seeing Puck’s Air Force buddies interact with the Glee kids, especially when it looked like there was a good chance Rachel might be taking one of them home. Things were all well and good until they were back at the hotel, and the boys were crowding into the elevator to go to Puck’s suite. When Santana didn’t appear to be getting off on their floor, Quinn was prepared with her disapproving face.

“I’m just hanging out,” Santana said. “I promise.” She kissed Quinn on lips that turned down. “You’re hanging out with Mercedes, Tina, and Britt,” Santana reminded her. “Puck’s my bro, and I’m his best (wo)man, I have to chill with him.”

“So go, chill,” Quinn said.

Santana studied the expression on Quinn’s face. Choosing to interpret it the way she wanted, she kissed Quinn on the lips. “You’re perfect, you know that,” Santana remarked.

Quinn gave her the sweetest smile that she could muster. “Anything for you _babe_.” She gave Santana a lingering kiss, before walking off.

Puck, who had watched the whole thing, punched Santana in her arm once Quinn was gone. “Dude, you know you’re totally screwed right?”

Santana watched the direction that Quinn had disappeared to. “Nah, we’re good. She wouldn’t really cut me off. She likes it as much as I do.”

She felt his hand fall onto her shoulder. “Take it from someone who used to date her, trust me when I say that no one can freeze you out quite like Quinn Fabray.”

“Lopez,” Santana added.

Puck chuckled. “You’re so gone.”

“Whatever, no I’m not.”

The party was awesome. Even though not even five minutes had passed since Young Puck had gone upstairs, by the time Santana and Puck made it to the room things were already underway. It had all the trimmings of a small time high school party, and Santana had to admit that she hadn’t partied like this since college. Apparently Puck had passed his bartending skills down to Jake, because old favorites were laid out on the table. Santana stayed by Puck’s side, right up until the strippers showed up, and then she became the only one trying to distance herself from Puck, because she knew her friend a little too well, and damn it, she couldn’t get her wife’s voice out of her head. To make it worse, one of the girls was blonde, but Quinn was right, she couldn’t hold a candle to her, and the thought just made her even angrier. She should _not_ be thinking about another girl when there were three, on display, moving their bodies to the music. _Damn the strippers, damn Quinn, and damn being freaking married._

* * *

Santana woke up to an erection in her back and a moral dilemma: go back to sleep without the comfort of arms around her, or put up with little Puck pressing into her. She decided to get up. Puck grunted, rolling over onto his pillow. Santana took stock. Puck was wearing only shorts. Her dress had been discarded beside the bed, and she was wearing a t-shirt and a size that she didn’t recognize, but was thankfully long enough to cover her ass. She wasn’t worried that she and Puck had done something stupid. The two of them had ended up cuddling most likely to prevent anyone else from doing something stupid and trying something. Or maybe the both of them just liked to cuddle.

Santana really didn’t feel like redressing. She wondered what her odds were of making it down to her room without someone seeing her. She removed the socks off of Puck’s feet, stepped over Young, Jake, and some guy she didn’t know, and decided to risk it. She took one of the room keys, though, before she did, because she knew she’d need to come back in a few hours to wake the guys up.

Unsurprisingly Quinn was sitting up in the bed, when she let herself into their room. “Hey, baby,” Santana said softly, as if afraid to wake a sleeping giant. Quinn eye’s surveyed her, almost x-raying her.

“You look like you had sex with the stripper,” Quinn huffed.

“I didn’t,” Santana said, as she climbed into the bed. “I collapsed with Puck so he’d wake up on time, but Puck makes cuddling impossible. Cuddle with me?”

Quinn leaned forward, her nose almost touching Santana’s and she sniffed. She sniffed the crook of her neck, her chest, and the top of her thighs. “What’re you doing?” Santana questioned in confusion.

“Nothing,” Quinn replied. She didn’t cuddle with Santana, but she didn’t say anything when Santana buried her face in her lap, and wrapped her arms around her. When Quinn was sure that Santana was asleep, she slid down so they were both lying down, and took her wife in her arms.

* * *

Quinn felt herself being shaken awake. “Hey, baby?” she opened her eyes to see Santana looking down on her. “I gotta go wake the boys up, okay?” Quinn nodded, sleepily. “You can go back to sleep, I just didn’t want you to wake up and not know where I was.” She kissed Quinn on top of her head, before gently pulling herself from the bed.

* * *

The wedding was scheduled for 4:00, and she only saw Santana in brief spurts prior to that. She rode to the church with Brittany, Mercedes, and a very happy looking Rachel, who was whistling some show tune. “So what was his name?” Mercedes demanded.

“Walken,” Rachel said with a blush. And then she exhaled a happy breath, and said no more.

The four of them sat together, finding faces in the crowd, and having quick whispered conversations while they waited for everything to get started. And then the music started, and people found their seats, and angled themselves towards the door.

Quinn was nearly floored when she saw Puck. As he made his way down the aisle on his mother’s arm, she had a momentary flashback to every performance where Puck had dressed up, worn a suit, a tie, or a tux. He looked positively handsome, debonair even, his short cropped hair hidden almost entirely beneath his Yamulke. When Puck and his mom reached the chupah, the symbolic canopy that was supposed to be a representation of their future dwelling, Puck’s mom gave him a big kiss. Whereas at any other time Puck would have been embarrassed, he beamed.

Santana and Shelly’s maid of honor were the first after Puck. Santana’s movements could only be described as a strut, and the girl Santana was walking down the aisle looked like she had won the lottery. Quinn wasn’t aware that she was grinding her teeth until Santana gave Quinn a wink as she passed them. Quinn bit back feelings of longing, and jealously, as she watched the procession, because she and Santana hadn’t done this. She wondered if they had, if Santana would look that proud and excited to see her walk down in the aisle as Puck was waiting for Shelly. Quinn’s wedding was pretty much all she had ever fantasized about as a kid. The groom was always interchangeable, just as long as he was from a good family, had a promising career track, and was a good Christian.

She chuckled, her ‘groom’ was none of that. He was a woman, who had an active libido, acted like she was 12, and was as far from Prince Charming as possible. Her whole young life had revolved around the concept of growing up to some day be someone’s wife, yet she had bypassed the ceremony that she had spent so much time planning.

Her eyes fell back on Santana. Santana’s outfit and the kittel over Puck’s tuxedo looked so well together it was almost as if they had planned it. Quinn was unsurprised to see her looking like she wanted to either hi five Puck or maybe punch him on his arm. She looked just as happy and proud as Puck did, at her friend’s nuptials. She wondered if Santana would still be standing in the same spot, if she and Puck had gotten married. He had never outright proposed, but Quinn knew that he had wanted to marry her. Dating him had been nice, her third longest relationship after Santana, but like every other, it had ended and Quinn hadn’t felt too upset about it.

Santana seemed to sense Quinn looking at her, because they made eye contact. She wiggled her eyes at Quinn, smiling broadly. “Hi,” she mouthed.

Quinn waved and mouthed ‘hi’ back. “You two are _so_ cute,” Mercedes whispered beside her. Quinn gave a glance at her friend. “What’re you talking about?”

“You and Santana.”

“We’re not cute. There’s nothing cute about us. We got married because of a bet.”

“Oh, okay,” Mercedes dismissed. “Sure.”

Their conversation was interrupted when the music cuing the bride started. They all got to their feet as Shelly appeared at the doors of the church and Santana and Quinn saw who Puck was marrying for the first time, and Puck saw his bride for the first time in five days. Shelly (Meshell) Casta was a very pretty woman, with dark black hair, gray/green eyes, and was somewhere flush in the middle of Quinn and Zizes size wise and Santana and Mercedes in skin color. She was half Mediterranean and, to Ms. Puckerman’s delight, half Jewish. She was kind of like an amalgamation of all the Glee kids, which made her all the more perfect for Puck, because he had pretty much dated everyone in Glee.

As she made her way towards him, Puck looked so completely grown up, and mature, and in love. He didn’t take his eyes off her the whole time she made her way towards the chupah. Shelly circled Puck seven times, before she came to a rest at Puck’s right hand side.

They were back on ground that Quinn understood when Quinn heard, “ _Dearly Beloved_.” She knew she didn’t imagine it when she saw Puck swipe at his eyes. As the two of them exchanged vows, and rings, Santana stared at Quinn, mouthing the words along with them. “So, ridiculously cute,” Mercedes sighed. 

The sound of a knife on glass instantly directed everyone’s attention to the head table. Puck nodded at Santana when the hall quieted down. “I don’t do speeches, so I’ll make this short and sweet. So if you’re like me, and have known Puck for how long has it been Noah?”

“22 years,” Puck supplied.

“Gosh, that long? Whoa. If you’d have known him like I’ve known him, you would have never thought that this day would have come, but here we are.” She turned to her friend. “I wish you and Shelly the best that life has to bring you, take care of each other. Shelly keep an eye on him, because Puck’s not perfect, but when he loves, he loves hard, and he’ll give you nothing short of his best. To many happy, happy years together. Oh, oh, I forgot. I’m supposed to recite the first blessing, so please forgive me, if I mispronounce something.

“Barukh attah Adonai eloheinu melekh ha-olam, shehakol bara likhvodo. How was that?” Santana whispered as she sat down. Puck grinned. “Perfect, Lopez.”

Jake, then Young, then Noah’s mom, Jake’s mom, Shelly’s father, and finally an uncle of Shelly’s recited their blessings before the glass of wine was passed back to Shelly and Puck each drinking from it before Noah smashed the glass underneath his foot, and a cry of “Mazal Tov!” was offered.

Santana drank her glass of wine before she gave up her spot at the head table, and went to go sit with her wife. She yawned, this whole thing was draining. “Did you like my Yiddish? Bet you didn’t your woman was like trilingual. Actually, I’m just freaking multi-lingual.” She dropped her voice low, and whispered, “Veux-tu coucher avec moi ce soir?”

Santana thought she would die when Quinn actually responded back, (and in French) “Peut-être oui.”

“I will drink to that,” Santana chirped. She kissed Quinn on her forehead. “I’ll be back.” Santana made her way through the crowd to the bar. “Can I have two glasses of wine?” Santana questioned of the bartender. She got a good look at the girl behind the bar. “Hey, you’re cute,” Santana noted, smiling at the woman.

The girl smiled back. “Thanks, you’re-,” she noticed the ring on Santana’s hand. “Married.”

Santana looked at it, too. “Oh, yeah, right.” How was it she kept forgetting these things? She pointed out Quinn. “She’s a total hottie, isn’t she?”

The bartender pouted and started to mix a drink. “Yea, she is,” the woman said flatly.

Santana noticed the sudden change in the girl’s mood. “Oh, no she’s totally cool. Open, I mean, to whatever.” Santana’s voice took on a sultry tone. “I am, too, you know, if you’re down.”

Two glasses were practically shoved at Santana, though the liquid remained unharmed. “I’ll keep that in mind,” the bartender said.

Santana quickly swallowed both glasses, glaring daggers at her wedding ring. It was seriously impending her game. She thought about taking it off, but realized it wasn’t worth the effort. And anyway, even if she wasn’t going home with anyone else tonight, Quinn would be in her bed, so who needed game? She remembered she was supposed to be getting drinks, and ordered two more glasses of wine, this time from a non-judgmental blonde haired guy.

With two fresh glasses, Santana made to go back to her wife, and found her way back to her table impeded by a shorter, brown haired girl who she was almost certain she should know. Especially judging by the broad smile she was giving her. “Hey, it’s Santana right?”

Santana quirked an eyebrow. “Yes...”

The girl giggled. “I’m Paris! Shelly’s friend. You walked me down the aisle.”

Santana grinned, looking the girl over, because, oh right, she did. “Oh, yes. Hi! Sorry, my minds kind of all over the place, you know, best friend getting married and all.”

“It’s okay. Nice to meet you again!”

“You, too!” Santana gave her a suggestive look. “Nice dress.”

The girl giggled, as her eyes wandered over Santana’s body. “Nice…” she seemed at a loss.

“It’s a drux. A dress tux. I created it,” she lied easily. “You know for the adventurous les who’s all about blending the lines of femininity.”

“I, like, totally get that.” Santana sent a prayer up because she was cute, gay, and dumb as hell.

Santana pretended to be artistically conflicted. “Do you, because sometimes I feel like my intentions don’t get across the way that I intend for them to?”

“No, I _totally_ get that…actually it’s pure genius cause sexuality is all blended lines. I like feel the same, you know: like I don’t want to date a guy, but I love their penises. That’s why strap-ons are so perfect!”

Santana tilted her head back. _Thank you_ , she whispers to the heavens. “Right?! Do you want to dance?”

In response the girl took one of the glasses from her hand, and used the other to guide Santana onto the floor. Things were just getting really good, Santana was wrapped up in the song, and Paris was grinding nicely against her, when she felt herself suddenly pulled backwards. “The hell?” she mumbled in surprise. A very angry Quinn had a grip on her arm, and was staring daggers at the poor girl who was cowering. Santana would have felt bad for the girl, if she didn’t feel bad for herself more.

Quinn glared at the girl with utter loathing, disguised by Quinn’s super sweet death glare. “Excuse me…er, what’s your name?”

“Paris.”

“Of course it is. Um… _Paris_ , I’m sure you’re a really nice girl, I am,” she gave a look that said the opposite. “But Santana will definitely not be spending a night in you, and if you don’t back the hell off of my wife, I will ends you. Entiendes?”

The poor girl looked so completely lost. “I don’t know what that means.”

Quinn turned and faced Santana. “It means, go find yourself some other nice girl in a skirt, like now, and as for you, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Dancing. Well, I was anyway, until you came in here all Rambo like and started throwing bodies around.”

“You are skating on really thin ice, Santana. First with that stripper, and now this!”

“Thanks to you, I didn’t go anywhere near the stripper last night, and me and Paris were only dancing, you know having fun.”

“Oh, fun? I’m sorry, I didn’t realize that that’s all that was. Excuse me.”

Quinn stalked away, and Santana warily watched her as she snaked her way through the crowd until she was standing in front of Rachel. Santana’s jaw dropped when Quinn pressed her lips against the lips of the unsuspecting woman, who then preceded to put her arm around Quinn’s waist _and kiss her back_. Ice grew in the pit of her stomach, and she was stomping through the crowd. She pulled Quinn away bodily, glaring at Rachel. “Down, troll,” she barked.

“Santana,” Quinn gasped innocently. “What’re you doing? Me and Rach were just having some _fun_.”

“Okay, you made your point,” Santana hissed.

Quinn poked a finger in her chest. “Do you?” Quinn demanded, while Rachel looked on confused as hell. _What had just happened_?

Santana grabbed a handful of dress and pulled Quinn to her. She pressed her lips against Quinn’s lips, but pulled back. “Gah, I can taste her on!” she hissed. “Berry! I need more alcohol for this.”

Santana wandered back over to the bar because she needed a drink, well aware of Quinn’s eyes watching her. Possessive Quinn was new, and very sexy, so she gave her ass a little extra shake and gave a glance over her shoulder to catch her wife’s reaction. Priceless.

The bartender was the same girl from before. She had an amused look on her face, as if she had been well aware of the actions since she last saw her, and maybe, too, as if she liked the way Santana walked.

“What’re you smiling about?” Santana grumped. She woman placed Santana’s drink in front of her, as well as a cocktail napkin with writing on it in lipstick. “What’s this?” Santana questioned, looking up.

The girl smiled. “My number. You and your wife seem _fun_. Call me if you’re game.”

Santana didn’t even have time to respond before she was pulled away from the bar. “Whoa, Quinn,” she guessed because she hadn’t managed to swing her head around to see who was dragging her this time, “we were just talking. I swear!”

She got no response as she scrambled to keep her feet beneath her as she was pulled out of the reception hall, and upstairs to their room. Quinn slammed the door closed, and pointed a finger at her chest. “Let’s get something straight, Santana. I don’t share. You don’t dance with other girls. You do not exchange phone numbers with other girls-”

“We didn’t exchange, she gave me her number.”

“Do you honestly not know when to shut, up? You’re married now, act like it!”

Quinn was surprised to see Santana smiling. Her face twisted in anger. “What are you smiling about?” Santana almost laughed, then, because it’s the same thing that she said a few minutes ago to the hot bartender Quinn pulled her away from.

She looked Quinn over. “We’re about to have angry, possessive sex, now, right?” Santana questioned eagerly. Quinn growled because, seriously, this woman. Santana fell back on the bed, her legs cocked open. “I’m all yours, Quinn. Claim me baby.”

Quinn rolled her eyes, then proceeded to do just that.


	4. Crime and Punishment

The Monday after Santana and Quinn got back from Puck’s wedding, Santana let herself into Quinn’s apartment, looking around in confusion. The blinds were drawn, and all the lights were off except for a dim red bulb coming from the kitchen. She checked her watch. “Babe? Are you home?”

“In the kitchen,” she heard Quinn call. Santana dropped her keys on the table by the door, and hesitantly made her way into the kitchen. Santana stopped at the sight that greeted her.

Quinn was leaning provocatively against the counter wearing a gray skirt business suit, one Santana was sure Quinn had never worn to the office. The skirt was about three inches shorter than anything that Quinn owned, and a size smaller. The suit jacket matched the skirt, and like the skirt it was short enough that Santana could see a bit of her stomach peeking out of the bottom of it. Its one button was buttoned but did nothing to conceal the silky white button down shirt that she wore beneath it. The shirt was unbuttoned far enough down that it showed off the lacy, gray push-up bra that somehow had Quinn’s breasts overflowing the cup. Quinn’s hair was done up in a no nonsense Professor McGonagall bun, and she peered at Santana over a pair of thick rimmed, black glasses.

Her dark hazels flashed devilishly, and she smacked the ruler that she held onto her palm.

“Wha-,”

Quinn brought the ruler down on the desk that Santana just noticed was sitting flush in the middle of the room. It was one of those old fashioned wooden and metal desks, that had the writing surface attached above the knee, and had a place for you to put your stuff in a cubby hole beneath the seat.

“Sit down,” Quinn commanded. Santana opened her mouth. “Shut up.”

Obediently, Santana scrambled to sit down. Quinn put both hands on top of the desk, leaning over. The sight of her cleavage less than a foot away from her, almost had her drooling. Quinn suddenly pushed back from the desk, and danced her way over to the counter. “I remember you saying that you wanted to get a dance from a sexy school teacher,” Quinn purred, giving her ass a shake. Even though she still had her back to her, Santana nodded.

“Well, what kind of wife would I be if I denied my baby what she wants?”

_Oh my God, Christmas has come_ early, Santana thought. _Quinn’s more awesome than I thought!_ Quinn fiddled around with her iPhone docking station until an instrumental version of _ABC_ filled the room. When Quinn turned back around, her hazel eyes, were darkened with lust. They didn’t stray from Santana’s as she began to sing. _“You went to school to learn girl, things you never, ever, knew before.”_

Quinn’s hands went to her hair, and she removed the pins that kept them up. Crinkly blonde locks cascaded down onto her shoulders. She shook her hair out. _“Like I before e, except after C.”_ The glasses were slowly pulled away from her eyes. Quinn bit the frames, “ _and why 2 plus 2 makes 4.”_

Quinn tossed her the glasses and practically moaned out _now, now, now_ , and Santana was trying to figure out how she had gone her whole life without knowing how fucking sexy this song was before. Quinn ran her fingers up and down her body as she danced, causing Santana to wish that it was her own hands moving along her wife’s form. At _“sit yourself down, take a seat_ ,” Quinn sat down on the desk, leaning backwards against Santana and whispering seductively in her ear, “ _All you gotta do is repeat after me_.”

Santana’s hands were moving to get a handful of her wife, but she jumped up before she could, and undid the one button on her jacket, letting it fall to the floor. Quinn’s husky voice as she hit the chorus sent shocks of heat down Santana’s belly to her core. She hadn’t done more than glance at the strippers at Puck’s party, but she’d seen enough to know they couldn’t hold a candle to this.

The shirt took exactly 20 song lyrics to come down, exposing shoulder, and stomach, and breast along the way. _“Come on and love me just a little bit.”_ The bra took even longer. Quinn’s short, short skirt, apparently had a very long zipper. _“Tea-tea teacher’s going to show you, how to get an A’.”_ Santana felt like she had stopped breathing in the time that it took Quinn to get it all the way down.

At ‘get up girl’ Quinn pulled Santana to her feet, and started to dance against her. _“Show me what you can do. Shake it, shake it, baby_.” Quinn’s leg wrapped around Santana’s waist, and she grinded against her. _“I’m going teach you, how to sing it out, come-a, come-a, come-a let me show you what it’s all about_.”

Santana was pushed away, and forced back into the chair as Quinn finished the song, ending on her back on the desk. Santana grabbed a handful of breast, and Quinn let Santana’s mouth suck and play with her nipple for only a few seconds before she was up again, pulling Santana out of the seat, and pushing her back against the refrigerator. Quinn’s mouth attacked Santana’s neck, at the same time that her hands attacked Santana’s clothes, practically ripping them off of her body. Her knee pressed in between Santana’s legs, drawing out long, panting moans from the poor, teased woman.

Quinn brought Santana right to the point where she thought she was going to come, and then stopped. “Quinn…” Santana moaned.

“Do you like that?”

“God, yes…please don’t stop.”

“Unh unh. Coming’s for good girls, and you have been very _bad_ , Santana,” Quinn drawled. Inside Santana was clapping because yes, yes she had. “Would you agree?”

Santana’s eyes were glued to Quinn’s breasts. “Oh, totally.”

Quinn drew the ruler seductively down her front. “ _Very bad,_ ” she purred. “And what do _bad_ girls get?”

“Punished?” Santana questioned, hopeful.

Smack! The ruler came down on Quinn’s hand. “Exactly. Your behavior this weekend has been appalling. You are _mine_ , Santana. As soon as we got married, _Quinn Fabray’s bitch_ got tattooed on your ass.”

“Lopez,” Santana corrected. If possible Quinn’s glare deepened. Santana shrunk in the seat, but quickly explained, “Quinn Fabray _Lopez’s,_ bitch.” Quinn still glared at her. “Ma’am.”

“I swear Santana, if you don’t learn when to shut _it_ , I’m going to duct tape your mouth closed and only take it off when it’s time to eat.”

Somehow that didn’t sound quite so bad. The ruler came down hard against the desk. Santana jumped. “As I was saying, I don’t like to share, and I’m not going to. You can look all you want, I don’t even care if you flirt, but I do not _ever_ want to see some nasty ass bitch with her ass that close to what is mine again, do you understand?”

Apparently Santana was allowed to talk again. “Yes, ma’am.”

Quinn slowly circled her. When Santana turned her head to follow, Quinn not so gently pushed it back. “Face forward!” Quinn snapped. “I don’t think you do understand. You’ve always had trouble grasping things the first time around.”

Quinn placed a notebook and paper in front of Santana. “I want you to write this sentence for me,” Quinn instructed. She waited until Santana was holding the pencil and looking at her attentively. “I am a married woman. I belong to Quinn Fabray. I will not drool over skanks, or let them put their nasty, disgusting, hands on me. I will not repeat my behavior from this weekend.”

Quinn watched as Santana wrote out Quinn’s words, rolling her eyes when Santana added Lopez after Fabray. Quinn gave a smile in satisfaction when Santana started to say ‘Done’ when she finished, but didn’t. Instead, she just sat her pencil down, and looked up at Quinn expectantly. “Now write that a hundred more times.” Quinn directed.

Santana’s mouth fell open. “Seriously?”

The ruler came down on the notebook. “Do I look like I’m joking?” Quinn demanded, her eyebrow raising.

“No, ma’am,” Santana mumbled.

“Then get started.”

Quinn’s naked ass headed out of the kitchen. “Where are you going?” Santana questioned. This was not at all what she had in mind when she thought of her sexy school teacher.

“ _I’m_ not being punished,” Quinn said, flippantly. A few minutes later, Santana heard the TV switch on to one of her shows. One of her shows that she knew Quinn couldn’t stand. _That bitch!_ Santana thought.

“I don’t hear you writing,” Quinn called.

Grumbling, Santana picked up her pencil and got started. A cramped hand and sexually frustrated hour later, Santana called out, “I’m done!”

Quinn waited until a commercial before she switched the TV off and went back into the kitchen. She picked up the pieces of paper that were on the desk, her eyes lazily dragging along Santana’s neatly slanting cursive. Santana really had nice penmanship, very elegant, and Quinn paused for a second to admire it, before checking the rest of the document. Santana had made sure to add Lopez to every single Quinn Fabray, and on a few of them (mostly the low digit numbers) Santana had made the O’s into hearts.

Quinn looked over the paper, at Santana sitting there, waiting, and she thought about the notes the two of them used to pass back and forth to each other during classes, the limericks that Santana used to make up about their classmates and teachers, plans for later on in the day or for the weekend that had almost always included each other, yet they always asked if the other was coming as if the answer might possibly be ‘no’. (Well, until the answer became no a lot more often than it was yes.)

Quinn tapped Santana’s arm lightly with the ruler. “Stand up.”

Santana scrambled from the chair happily. Her ass had started hurting half an hour ago, and she was glad to not have to sit on it anymore. “Put your hands on the back of the chair, arch your back and stick your ass out.”

Santana grinned at Quinn, because this was more like it. She quickly obeyed, standing as instructed. She gave a soft little moan when she felt Quinn run her fingers down Santana’s ass. Quinn flicked up her skirt, and pulled down her underwear, exposing her ass to the semi-cold air of the room. She took a moment to admire the view. Santana still kept to a consistent exercise regimen, and her ass was just as firm and enticing as it’d been scarcely hidden beneath those skirts in high school.

Quinn didn’t want to give Santana any time to guess what she was about to do, so she quickly brought the ruler down on Santana’s ass, enjoying the sound it made when wood hit flesh.

“Oh, fuck Quinn! What wa-”

This earned her another swat on the ass. “It’s _Mrs. Lopez_ to you,” Quinn said sternly. “You’ve been a very, very naughty girl, Santana, and you have to be punished.” Another smack on her ass. “Since you acted like an ass this weekend, you owe me yours. 10 licks. If you wiggle or squirm we’ll start over until you can give me 10 perfect licks. Do you understand?” Quinn smacked her again when she didn’t answer quickly enough.

“ _Yes!_ Mrs. Lopez.” Even embarrassed and in pain, Santana managed to say the name with a sense of flair. Quinn smacked her ass firmly with the ruler. “Who’s ass is this?”

“Ow…yours.”

Another smack. “Who’s?”

“Fuck, yours!”

“That’s right,” Quinn said, giving her two softer taps with the ruler, followed by one that was so sharp it surprised Santana. She jumped slightly, but kept her hands around the back of the chair.

The next two slaps were delivered by Quinn’s hand. Santana and Quinn both seemed to enjoy that one. Santana mumbled something. Quinn leaned forward to hear better. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that. Who do you belong to?”

“You!” Santana grunted as another swat fell. The last three were delivered by the ruler, quickly, because Quinn had already gotten bored with it, though she liked the way Santana’s ass jiggled after she slapped it.

Santana felt her ass was on fire, and she was sure that it was going to be uncomfortable sitting down for the rest of the day. She was already plotting revenge on her wife when she felt a sudden coolness on her back side, and realized that Quinn was rubbing lotion or some crème onto it. “Feel good?” Quinn questioned.

Santana nodded. Quinn continued to knead Santana’s ass even after all of the crème was gone. She placed a firm hand on Santana’s back, and kicked her legs open. Santana had only the slightest idea of what was about to happen, before she felt Quinn’s fingers enter her sex from behind. Santana’s hands gripped the back of the chair tighter than she had when Quinn had been spanking her with the ruler. No question, Santana was actually drooling. “No one but me gets this,” Quinn boasted, slamming her hips into Santana’s backside. The feel of Quinn pounding into her, of Quinn’s hips crashing into her, of her pushing against her recently tanned ass, was too good of a feeling to last. Her legs trembled, as she struggled to keep herself standing, to try to control her impending orgasm and draw it out just a little…bit…

She stuttered out a garbled Quinn as she came, Quinn following behind her a few seconds later, falling against her partner. Once Santana felt strong enough to, she carried Quinn to her bedroom, and sat her gently on the bed. Santana took her time, slowly building Quinn up to a second orgasm, enjoying taking her time. When Quinn was as sated as Santana felt, she collapsed down beside her, pulling Quinn to her. “That was so fucking hot, baby,” Santana said appreciatively.

“Was that alright?” Quinn questioned, slapping Santana’s ass to remind her of what she meant.

Santana winced at the contact before blushing. “I kind of liked it,” she admitted. “Only…let’s just do that every now and then. Not the school teacher, you can do school teacher _whenever_ you want.”

“Noted.”

Santana gave her another kiss. “You’re amazing.”

Quinn gave herself a congratulatory nod. “Just reminding you of who you belong to. You know, in case there was some doubt.”

Santana placed a kiss to the spot right beneath her ear. “There never, ever was. I just like making you jealous.” Just before Santana drifted off to take a quick nap, she made a mental note to call Mercedes and thank her for her advice.


	5. Anything you want....just not that

Santana sang along softly with the radio as she made her way to Quinn’s after work. It had been a tough day and all she wanted to do was kick her shoes off, lay back on the couch, have Quinn give her head, eat, and go to bed. Work had been working her rough lately, and she had this crick in her neck that she was positive was in direct correlation to this guy named Basheri who she didn’t like on principal alone, and doubly hated when he breathed his hot breath in her face. At a stop light Santana texted Quinn to confirm that she was already there, and wondered what her chances were of having another come-home-to-see-her-wife-horny-and-in-costume moment.

She was mildly hopeful when she walked in and saw the mess in front of her. “What the hell is all this?” Santana questioned.

Quinn ghosted past her and gave her a kiss on the lips. “They’re samples for our invitations.”

“I thought I was done being punished,” Santana grunted. It was already starting to sound like this was not going to turn into her relaxing evening. “Invitations for what?” Santana had moved to the kitchen. Quinn only had wine coolers in the fridge, though, so she poured herself a glass of water. She was really going to have to give her wife a shopping list.

“For our reception.”

Santana handed Quinn a glass of water as well. “I thought I already handled that.”

“Sending out a mass picture text of us that said, ‘ _She’s my misses, now, bitches’!_ with a date and time doesn’t count.”

Santana straddled the chair beside Quinn, a pout on her face. “I thought it was clever.”

Quinn lightly stroked her cheek. “Oh, it was,” she told her, “but we should cover all bases and go a more traditional route, too.”

“Are you being condescending?”

“A little, yeah.” Quinn pushed four squares of cardstock, and a handful of different calligraphy styles toward Santana. “Tell me what you think about these?” Santana grunted. “Sooner we do this, the sooner it gets done,” Quinn pressed.

“Babe, they’re just announcements. I don’t care what they look like.”

Quinn fought to hide her disappointment at her statement. “Well…okay, fine. There’s one that I really liked, I just thought since it’s _our_ day that we’d do this together. So I guess we’ll just go with this design here?” Quinn showed her a thick beige card, with lace trim, and a thick cursive.

Santana only gave it a cursory look. “No, I don’t like that one.”

“What’s wrong with it?” 

Santana shrugged. “I just don’t like it.”

“Okay, well what about-,”

Santana cut her off. “I told you, I don’t care. Whatever you pick, I’ll like.”

“Just not the first one I showed you?”

Santana nodded. “Right. But anything else, I’m down,” she added agreeably.

Quinn looked back down at the same different patterns and styles that she had been looking at all day when she’d had a break at work. “Okay, what about the indented off-white with the embossed rose and scrolling French script?”

“Perfect! Good job, baby! Is there a new Orphan Black coming on tonight?”

“Now who’s being condescending?”

“I’m not. Let’s order that, and get them sent out.”

“Really?”

“Yep.”

“You sure?”

Santana nodded enthusiastically. “Whatever you like, baby.”

Quinn put together the ensemble and showed it to her. “This is what they’ll look like. I really like the rose and the trim. I think this is it.”

Santana frowned. “Oh,” she said, looking it over. Her lip curled up. “I don’t like it.”

“What don’t you like about it?”

Santana squinted, trying to come up with the right words. “I don’t know…it’s…fugly? Baby do we really have to do this? I kind of like do this all day at work, and I just want to relax, and chill, and like fuck you on the table or something since you didn’t cook and I’m kind of hungry, and then have a beer, which I can’t because you only have stupid wine coolers in the refrigerator, and we really need to talk about groceries at some point.”

Quinn sifted through Santana’s rambling. She settled on one statement. “What’s wrong with wine coolers?”

“Like seriously? You try to make a case for how you’re more butch than me, and you ask that? There’s beer, and there’s liquor.” She waved her hands. “There’s nothing in between. I’ll text you a shopping list so you know what beer to get me.”

“Er…why can’t you do your own grocery shopping?”

Santana gave her typical confused look. “Cause, I thought that’s why people got wives, you know to, like, go shopping for you and stuff.”

“You do realize that you’re _my_ wife, too, right?”

Santana just kind of stared at her before she rubbed her temple. “Urgh, why are you confusing my head with useless words, baby? I had a long day!”

Quinn decided that she wanted their very first vacation together to be a trip into Santana’s mind because she was sure that it was a great place to be.

“Tell you what, how about if you help me pick out our invitations, and some other things, and then I’ll go shopping _with_ you tomorrow after work?”

“I already told you, an invitation is an invitation, it doesn’t matter what it looks like.”

“Yet, you keep on turning down my suggestions, so it would save time if we just sat down and picked out ones that we can both agree on.” Santana groaned, and Quinn grinned. “Okay, so let’s start with weight first, I guess.”

Santana bit her lip, looked at the options displayed in front of her, picked a trim, a card stock, a calligraphy set, and a style, and showed it to Quinn who expected it to be the worst possible combination imaginable, and was surprised when it wasn’t at all. “That’s actually…”

“Perfect,” Santana supplied, cockily. “I know.”

Quinn was upset that she couldn’t find something that was wrong with it. “How?”

“I told you, I do this all day at work, baby. I’m like a design whisperer or some shit.” 

“What is it exactly that you do?”

Santana laughed because they had known each other for 16 years, had been sleeping together for 9, and they didn’t know what each other did for a living. “I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you. That reminds me, though: what’s your favorite color?”

“Um…green…why?”

“I actually knew that, never mind.” 

Quinn gave a questioning look. “What’s that about?”

“I figured if we didn’t know what each other did, we probably didn’t know simple stuff about each other like favorite color,” she shrugged, “but I was wrong, I guess I know you after all.”

“What’d you just say?”

“I know you after all?”

“No, not that. Before that?”

“I was…oh, very funny, Fabray.”

“Lopez.”

Santana paused for a second before she started clapping, an ecstatic smile appearing on her face. “Ha! Now I’ve even got you saying it!”

Quinn realized what she’d done and buried her head in her hands. “Shit.” Santana suddenly knocked the box of cards from the table, sending them flying. “Why the hell did you just do that?” Quinn demanded.

“We need to have sex right now,” Santana said seriously.

“Why?” Was she really questioning why she and Santana needed to have sex? Did the reason even remotely matter?

“Because we just had a cute, couple-y moment, and we’re not cute couple-y type of people. So, you need to like, screw the taste out of my mouth, or something.”

“Oh,” Quinn replied. “Well how about we let it go just this once, and we’ll pretend that it never happened so we can finish this and make a grocery list?”

“This is starting to seem way too domestic,” Santana decided.

She was thinking that it’d been kind of nice. “Santana we’re _married._ How much more domestic do you think it gets?”

“I keep forgetting that.”

“Yet you never forget to correct anyone who leaves off the Lopez on the end of my name.”

“Well, duh, because that’s your name,” Santana stated. “How in the world am I supposed to forget your _name?”_

“Your logic astounds me sometimes.”

Santana gave her a blank look. “Quinn, you know the cardinal rule: Don’t apply logic to Lopez.”

“I see that.” Santana suddenly jumped up. “Where are you going?”

“I’ve come to the realization that you’re not cooking me dinner tonight, and I’m starving. Sweet and sour chicken still your guilty pleasure?”

Quinn took a moment to be embarrassed. “Umm…yes, actually.”

Santana winked at her. “Don’t worry, I’ll order the steamed veggies and brown rice, too, and we can both pretend that we’re going to eat them. Sue will never have to know!”

Quinn was halfway to thinking that her wife was actually kind of perfect, but then she spied the mess on the floor, and reconsidered. She felt a kiss on her cheek. “What’re you thinking about?”

Quinn gave a bland smile. “Nothing much.”

“Food should be here in 45.”

Santana bent to pick up the cards that she knocked over. “You know if we had went ahead and had sex I wouldn’t have to pick these things up.”

“Sex wouldn’t have magically made them disappear, Santana.”

“Yes, it would have,” she insisted.

“No, they’d just stay on the floor until I stumbled over them later and picked them up.”

“See, you just proved my point: _I_ wouldn’t be picking them up. Oh, hey, I just remembered that I need some of that foamy stuff for my bathroom so can you put that on the list? And I think I might be out of toilet paper. And eggs. I need eggs.”

“There’s eggs here.”

“Yea, but I want to make you an omelet for breakfast on Saturday, and I’m out at my apartment. That sort of reminds me, have you gotten in touch with mami yet? I know it’s _our_ reception, but she’s been planning this for like a billion years, and she’s going to be hurt and all that if you don’t involve her.”

“I know better than to leave her out, and I am more than willing to defer to mom as much as possible. I just figure that there’s some things that we need to handle ourselves.”

That infectious smile appeared on Santana’s face. “Say that again?”

Quinn looked confused. “Say what? What did I say?”

“You said mom, not ‘your mom’, but mom. I like that.”

She rolled her eyes. “Please, I’ve known Maribel as long as I’ve known you. It was bound to happen at some point or other.”

Santana surged up, crashing her lips down onto Quinn’s. She lifted her up, planting her on the table. “Santana!” 

“I just want to fuck you so badly right now,” Santana murmured. She started to tug at Quinn’s clothes, wondering why they were even still on. “How about,” she pushed her suit jacket from her shoulders, “from now on,” she sucked on Quinn’s neck while unbuttoning the shirt, “when you get off of work first,” Santana paused for a quick minute to admire Quinn’s bra encased breasts, “you just strip as soon as you get home. Like just be naked and waiting for me as soon as I come in?”

Quinn had just wrapped her legs around Santana’s waist when there was a knock on the door. “You’re fucking kidding me,” Santana grunted. She placed a lingering kiss on Quinn’s lips. “Don’t move.” She paused, and placed a kiss between Quinn’s legs, too. “Like stay, just like that.”

Santana scrambled to find her wallet. “You have the worst possible timing,” she said to a stricken delivery boy when she opened the door. “How much do I owe you?”

The guy checked the tag and told her the price. Santana handed him two twenties, and grabbed the bag from him. “I don’t need any change,” she said quickly, briefly seeing the guys smile before the door slammed shut. She nearly dropped the food in the doorway in her haste to get back to a Quinn that had not only redressed, but was wearing her bed clothes.

Santana stopped so quickly she nearly rocked in place. “Why are you wearing clothes?” she protested.

“Haven’t you been moaning about being hungry for the past hour and a half?”

Santana looked grumpily at her redressed wife. “Yeah, but you know I can multitask. I was going to use you as the plate.”

When she realized that Quinn wasn’t going to go for it, she stomped over to the couch and picked up the remote control, flickering through the channels. Quinn refilled their water glasses, and joined Santana on the couch. Instead of sitting beside her, though, she pushed Santana forward so that she could sit behind her and hold her while they ate. And Santana, who had been pointing out how domesticated the two of them were being all night, didn’t say one word about it, or about them feeding each other as they watched TV together until they were full and Santana ended up falling asleep in the middle of a rerun of the Big Bang Theory.

Quinn quickly cleaned up their mess, laughing to herself because neither of them had even so much as touched the brown rice and veggies. She was about to turn off the TV, when a sound from Santana had her eyes trained on her. She actually gasped, because Santana was just so astoundingly beautiful. Santana was sexy, but she was also soft, acidic, but knew how to be kind, funny, but on the very rare occasion was serious. She was a good friend, Quinn’s best friend, and yea, completely insatiable when it came to sex. And hers. No one else got to see all the sides of Santana like she did, they didn’t get to nudge her out of bed at night to get her a glass of water, or get to have her fall asleep against them.

She brushed the hair off of Santana’s face so she could see her better. Fingers shaking she let them ghost along Santana’s face, softly touching her way down her nose, across her cheek bones, and down to her lips. Quinn placed the softest of kisses on them, and when she leaned back and opened her eyes it was to see Santana’s eyes had opened, and she was watching her. She smiled softly up at Quinn.

“Don’t tell my wife,” Santana whispered, “but I think you might be an angel.”

Quinn slowly kissed her until they were both breathing hard. “I’m going to bed, are you coming?” Before Santana could make a crude comment, Quinn stopped her. “I’m _o nly_ going to bed.”

“You say that like that’s a deal breaker,” Santana returned. “It’s not like torture to sleep next to you Quinn.”

Before she could smile at the sweetness of the statement, Santana threw her arms open. “Carry me,” she commanded.


	6. Out and About

Santana woke up a half hour before Quinn’s alarm clock was set to go off and casting a quick look at the sleeping form of the woman beside her, she decided that she might as well get up. She started a fresh pot of coffee and set about getting started on breakfast. She was toying with the idea of actually serving Quinn breakfast in bed when she heard the shower start. Double checking to make sure that everything was off, she decided to check on her. Quinn was reaching for her loofah when she heard the curtain to the shower draw back, letting in a small gust of cold air with it. A warm body soon followed, filling the space, quickly heating the space back up. “Mind if I join you,” her wife purred. Quinn fought back a smile Santana was unable to see.

“And if I do?” she questioned seductively.

Santana stepped closer to her. “I can leave,” she responded. Her actions said otherwise though. She eliminated the space between the two of them, pressing herself against the woman in front of her.

“I’d appreciate that,” Quinn teased.

Santana’s hands came in contact with her body, gently scratching her fingernails over the lines of Quinn’s back. “Really?” She drew the word out, placing kisses on her shoulder blades as she did. “Because you feel _really_ wet to me right now.”

Quinn hummed, continuing to play along. “Do I?”

She nodded into her skin. Santana kissed the top of her shoulder blades, wrapping her arms around Quinn’s waist to pull her even closer into her. “Mmm hmmm.” She nudged Quinn’s wet hair off of her shoulders with her head to have better access to her back, shoulders, and neck. Lightly, her teeth grazed over her skin. “ _So_ wet.” Quinn felt her pulse rise at the feel of her wife’s breath on her skin. A tingle making itself known between her legs.

Santana’s hands burned trails up Quinn’s sides, moving around to the front to delicately cup her breasts. They both moaned at the contact, Quinn letting out a soft little whimper in appreciation. She pressed back against her wife, the contact causing her to gasp. Santana’s hands slowly began to knead her breasts. When her nipples stiffened beneath her touch, Santana’s mouth nearly watered at the idea of running her tongue over the hard pebbles. Instead she ran her tongue up her shoulder blades, to her neck, sloppily planting open mouth kisses against them.

Wanting to see her, Quinn turned in her arms, their lips finding each other immediately. Without much fight, Quinn’s tongued plunged into Santana’s, laying claim. While Quinn’s tongue explored her wife’s, Santana gently pushed Quinn’s back into the side of the shower, firmly slipping her leg between Quinn’s. She gasped at the first feel of Santana against her core. “San,” she moaned, anxious to feel her inside of her. 

Santana lifted one of Quinn’s legs for better access, teasing her entrance with a finger. “Say please.”

“Santana,” Quinn warned in a tone that was very reminiscent of her Queen Fabray head bitch days. Santana, however, was enjoying herself. She loved the sound of Quinn begging. She traced little circles in her nether region, teasing the hole. “Say please,” she repeated.

“Now,” Quinn growled.

“Tut tut, Quinn. Where are your manners? You’re supposed to say _please_.” Santana’s hand started to withdraw. Not in the mood for Santana’s teasing, Quinn decided to flip the tables. Without either woman quite sure how it happened, Quinn somehow managed to pull her leg out of Santana’s hand, and spin her around so that Santana’s back was now pushed back into the wall. “Fabray’s _don’t_ beg,” she grunted.

It might have been one of the hottest things Santana had ever heard, but that didn’t stop her from saying “Lopez.” Her familiar correction, however, was hardly uttered before Quinn had entered Santana with no prior warning or chance to brace herself. Santana’s eyes rolled back into her skull. “F-fuck,” she stuttered, feeling like a sophomore year Tina Cohen-Chang.

“What was that?” Quinn questioned.

Her hands sought purchase on the slick shower walls then, giving that up, she just wrapped her arms around Quinn’s neck, and held on tight. “N-nothing.” Quinn’s hips pushed into the back of her hand to give her more leverage, more thrust with each thrust. Santana’s teeth bit down into her lip, but that did nothing to still the screams that she felt escaping her lips.

“Fuck, Quinn. Fuck…me.”

Quinn’s eyebrow arched. “You’re such a bitch bottom, Tan,” she said in amusement.

“S-switch…fuck…hitter,” Santana mumbled, actively unashamedly grinding down onto Quinn’s hand. “I’m s-so,”

Quinn’s tongue invaded her mouth, thrusting into it with the same passion that her hands were using down below. Santana held on for a few more seconds, before she came hard, her one leg trembling and threatening to collapse beneath her. The only reason she stayed planted on her feet…well foot…was because Quinn was holding on to her.

Quinn continued to thrust into her, however, until she got off to the friction applied by her own hand. Gently, Quinn let Santana’s leg fall from her grasp.

Once her foot was on the ground, to both their surprises, Santana started to laugh. Quinn cut her eyes at her. “What?”

Instead of answering, Santana just shrugged placing a kiss on her kiss swollen lips. “You’re just so fucking hot, baby.” She giggled. Actually giggled.

After a few seconds passed, Santana removed the loofah that was still clutched in Quinn’s hand, and put body wash on it. With meticulous care, she worked the lather into the sponge and began to administer to Quinn’s body with it. She brushed it lightly over the shoulder blades that she had kissed and sucked on, slowly moving it over her collar bone. Quinn shivered. She leaned in to give each nipple a quick suck before she very lightly wiped the action away with the sponge. Quinn arched into the barely there contact as the loofah scratched against her nipples, pressing more firmly in the space between her breasts. Pulling Quinn into her, their breasts brushing against each other, Santana traced along her shoulder blades, down to the small of her back. She must have sat the sponge down, then, because Quinn felt two wet, slippery hands grab her ass, pushing her core into Santana’s in a very delicious way.

Santana didn’t linger, however, because just as Quinn was arching her back, Santana’s hands withdrew. Quinn soon felt the loofah trail down one cheek then the other before passing across her sit spots, and returning to the front of her body. Santana kissed down her stomach, pressing lips into flesh right before she wiped each kiss away with the sponge. Santana paused at her belly button to swipe her tongue inside of it, before she pressed a soapy thumb into the crevice, pausing a moment to play with it, even as her mouth moved further south.

Santana dropped to the shower floor, and Quinn gasped in anticipation of feeling Santana’s mouth on her sex, disappointed when she only kissed the top of her mons, before she moved to the legs. She gave her left inner thigh a brief bite before she ran the sponge all the way down the back of her leg, coming back up on the front side, then proceeded to do the same with her left leg. When she finished, the loofah dropped to the shower floor.

Curiously, Quinn watched Santana, who was still kneeling in front of her, reach again for the body wash, letting a very little amount fall into her hands. She pulled one of Quinn’s legs over her shoulder. Looking directly at Quinn, she stuck a finger inside of her, her mouth latching onto her sensitive clit a few seconds later.

Quinn’s hands sought something to hold onto, settling with wrapping one hand around the shower head, the other on top of her wife, gathering a fistful of wet, curly, brown/black strands. Santana pushed the second finger in, drawing them out slowly. She repeated this, quick thrust in, slow pull out, quick thrust in, slooow pull out. Quinn wasn’t expecting the third finger, nor when Santana’s pinkie started to tease her puckered back door.

She moaned loudly, not sure if she wanted her to push it in or not. Santana continued to tease, not adjusting her rhythm. “I think you like that, Quinn,” Santana said. Quinn moaned again in agreement. Santana’s hand stilled in retaliation for being thwarted on her earlier fun. “Say, please, Quinnie,” Santana teased again.

Quinn’s resolve lasted about three whole seconds, because in this position there was nothing she could do to self-satisfy, and because she was so damn close to her orgasm. “Please…San, fucking please!”

“You don’t have to beg,” Santana said, laughing. She was still laughing when her mouth once again covered her clit, and that one small action shouldn’t have felt as good as it did. On the next hard thrust in, Quinn came her legs shaking so hard she could hardly stay standing. Santana kept her on her feet, adjusting to swallow the juice that she had earned.

When Santana recovered her feet, she very sensuously placed a kiss on Quinn’s lips, her deep gaze causing Quinn to shiver. She reached over Quinn for the shampoo and conditioner, and then proceeded to very gently wash her wife’s shoulder-length locks.

After her hair had been washed and wrung out, Quinn stepped out of the shower to get dressed for work. She smiled when she saw that there was fresh coffee ready when she went into the kitchen, and made a cup for herself, which she sat on the counter in favor of carrying a cup into Santana, who was just now getting out of the shower. When a towel-wrapped Santana took the mug of coffee from her hands and smiled at her over it, Quinn confirmed something that had occurred to her briefly while they were in the shower together: she was in trouble.

* * *

Connie sat down beside Quinn, startling her into looking up from the book she was reading. (She had a Nook somewhere, but it mysteriously disappeared since Santana started spending the night consistently). “A bunch of us are grabbing drinks after work, are you down? Ryan will be there!” she added, in an attempt to pull Quinn in. Ryan was a guy that had had a thing for her ever since he started working at Brinkley and Quinn recalled having a thing for him at one point, too. He was handsome and was smart. They had made it as far as having a lunch date together, but it hadn’t ever gone any further than that.

“I can’t,” Quinn answered. “Santana’s picking me up from work and we’re going grocery shopping!”

Connie opened the container carrying her lunch. “Okay, what gives cause that’s the happiest I’ve ever seen anyone get over going grocery shopping. Who’s Santana?”

Quinn blushed, surprised that she was as excited about it as she was, but was sharply reminded of how separate she kept her work and home life. She and Connie were work friends; she didn’t talk to her about much else outside of work. “She’s my wife,” Quinn admitted with a bit of reservation. She wasn’t out at work. She gave a shy smile. “We’ve never gone grocery shopping together.”

She braced herself for Connie’s reaction. “I didn’t know you were married!” Connie said, excitedly. She paused. “I didn’t know you were gay.”

“I’m not,” Quinn said, immediately. “But my wife is.”

Connie barked out a laugh. “Ha, that’s kind of funny. How long have you been married?”

“A month.”

“And you didn’t tell anyone?”

Quinn fidgeted, somewhat uncomfortable. “I told Nadine in H.R.”

“That doesn’t count. I need details. Was it a big wedding or small? What does she look like?”

That was easy enough to answer. _Sex_ _personified_ , Quinn thought quietly, pulling out her phone, surprised by how easy Connie was taking the news. “It was a small wedding, just our parents and my and her best friends. It really wasn’t that big of a deal,” Quinn dismissed.

“Of course it’s a big deal! How long have you known each other, when did you meet, who asked whom,” she pressed for details. She looked at the picture that Quinn showed her. “Oh my god, is that her? Damn.” She gave Quinn the elevator eyes. “Nice catch!”

Quinn smiled inwardly, surprised at how easy this conversation was. “Ummm…thanks. We met in middle school, I’m not sure how long it’s been, and she asked me.” As she talked she realized that if they took out the sex and bet aspect of their relationship, it sounded somewhat romantic. They had known each other for a long time, had been best friends in high school and college, and had kept in touch all these years, until one day, out of the blue, Santana had popped the question.

“Ryan will definitely be disappointed,” Connie said as an afterthought, “but who would care when you get to come home to _that_? Well, if you guys get done shopping early, you should still come out because we’ve all seen each other drunk and stupid before, but we’ve never seen you that way!”

Quinn gave a smile, certain that she and Santana would be busy celebrating the moment with one or both of them on their backs. “I’ll see,” she replied.

* * *

Santana met Quinn outside of her building, giving a smile at the sight of her wife. Quinn looked up suddenly and gave a smile too. “How was your day?” Santana questioned.

“I realized something today.”

Santana placed a quick kiss on Quinn’s cheek. “Yeah, what’s that?” she questioned, slipping her hand inside of Quinn’s. Quinn looked down at it for a moment, before looking up. This, too, was new.

“I realized that I never said I was gay at work, before.”

A smile curled on Santana’s lips. “Oh, hey are you gay now? Shit, I wish I would have known, I would have baked you a cake. Make sure you put mix on the grocery list.”

“You’re not funny, you know.”

Santana kissed her hand. “That’s odd, I could have sworn I was hilarious. Or was that fabulous? Either way, I’m definitely a ‘lous.”

“Louse, maybe.”

Santana pinched her cheek. “Oh, look at you trying to be clever. That’s cute. So you made some big announcement that you were gay today?”

Quinn scrunched up her face in a way that Santana thought was way too cute. “Not exactly, but I did tell Connie that we were married.”

“Who is Connie? Is she like some chick who is digging on you whom I’m now going to have to beat her ass or something?”

“You would do that?”

“Well, no, but I would totally like send her flowers for a few weeks and pretend they’re from some guy, and totally get her hopes up, and then be like, “Ha, psyched your mind! No one loves you!”

Quinn paused in her stride. “Santana, I swear sometimes I just don’t know what to do with you.”

There was no hesitation from her. “Fucking always works,” Santana said with a straight face. “Seriously, when in doubt, put out.”

Quinn did her best not to laugh at her wife’s insanity. She didn’t want to encourage it. When they made it to the garage where Santana had parked her car, they both kind of stopped in front of the sedan, expectant. “Aren’t you going to open my door?” Quinn questioned.

Santana very deliberately lifted her car fob so Quinn could see it and pushed the button unlocking the doors. “Just did,” she said before she slid into the car. A half a second later, Quinn followed her. “All my boyfriends always opened the doors for me,” Quinn grumped.

“I read a manual about training a puppy and the book clearly states that you don’t reward bad behavior otherwise they keep doing it. According to the manual, I’m supposed to rub your nose in the door.” She tapped Quinn on the nose. “Bad Quinn,” she purred.

They went to the Trader Joe’s closest to Santana’s apartment. Quinn was surprised when Santana did swing around to open her door for her, wasn’t surprised when she immediately swatted her on the ass, and couldn’t figure out why she was surprised when Santana stood up on the bar at the bottom of the cart and insisted that Quinn push her. She was all set to deal with that particular brand of ridiculousness until Santana spread her arms and yelled, “I’m on top of the world!”

Shopping with Santana turned out not to be the romantic bout of coupledom that Quinn was expecting, but a lesson in patience, and for maybe the first time since she was 16, she was a little glad that she’d given up Beth cause she certainly wouldn’t have had the patience to deal with her with a cool head back then. She was 29 now, and barely able to deal with her wife. No way would she have been able to handle a baby at 16. About an hour into the shopping trip, though, a miracle happened: Santana ran out of energy. By this time they were both pushing their own shopping carts, and everything was separated out into Quinn’s place and Santana’s place.

“You want to get something from the deli for dinner tonight, or should you attempt to cook us something?”

“There’s still some of that yummy brown rice and veggies left over from yesterday,” Quinn chided.

“Yea, but that’s at your place, and we’re going back to mine tonight.”

“All the reception stuff is at my place, though.”

Santana grunted. “What in the world do we have to decide on now?”

“A lot,” Quinn asserted. “More presently, we need to figure out how many people we’re inviting to the reception so we know how many invitations to order, where we want it to take place, the set-up,” Santana kind of blanked out as Quinn ticked things off. Seriously, she figured that her mom and Quinn could figure all that out, and that she wouldn’t have to supply much input, and did they really need to discuss it now?

“Are you listening to me, Santana?”

Santana tuned back in. “Huh, of course! What’d you say?”

Quinn started to load the groceries on to the belt in a huff. “You weren’t listening.”

“I totally was, babe. I agree, that’d be awesome.” She gave a winning smile, hoping that it would apply to whatever Quinn had said. Her eyes fell on the magazines. “Oh my God! Kim and Kanye are getting back together! You would think after the ‘Divorce of the Decade’ they wouldn’t be within a state of each other ever again.”

Quinn sighed, and continued to load the groceries onto the belt. “Could you at least do a better job of _pretending_ you care about the reception?”

Santana nudged her. “I’m excited about the honeymoon,” she whispered into her ear. Instead of earning a blush or a smile from Quinn, her wife just scowled, applying a little more force to empting the cart than before. Santana put a hand on her arm, only to have it jerked away. “It was just a joke babe,” Santana mumbled.

“It always is, isn’t it?” Quinn returned. “You know what, forget it. I’ll take care of everything myself.”

Santana took a step back. “Whoa, what’s that about?”

There was a silence that lasted a span of three seconds. Quinn smiled. “Nothing.”

Santana was surprised when Quinn didn’t pull a power play about getting the groceries into the car, or about doors being held open for her, she just helped to empty the carts (Quinn’s in the back seat, Santana’s in the trunk), and got into her seat, seatbelt on and waiting for Santana. She didn’t say anything, actually, until Santana had the key in the ignition. “Can you take me home,” Quinn said quietly.

Santana paused. “That’s where we’re going,” she said in response, starting the car. “I figure we can stop at _Popeyes_ on the way to my place and get some nice greasy fried chicken for dinner.” Santana evaluated the look of disgust on Quinn’s face. “Or not.”

“I don’t want to go to your place, Santana. I want to go home.” Santana tried to fix her mind around this change. She had already mentally prepared herself to be at her apartment for the night. They had been at Quinn’s for the last two nights in a row. Maybe Quinn just wanted to take her groceries home first instead of leaving them at Santana’s place, but if that had been the case they would have gone shopping closer to Quinn’s.

“Babe, is something wrong?”

“No, I just want to be in my own home.”

Well shit, that didn’t sound too good. Santana’s place was supposed to like be Quinn’s home too. She had even gotten some throw pillows for the couch, and some of that fruity Air Scents that Quinn liked too. Santana was trying to figure out what she had done wrong.

Save for the incessant honking that was a constant background noise of the city, it was a quiet ride to Quinn’s apartment. “You don’t have to help me carry the bags upstairs,” Quinn said when the car was brought to a stop.

Santana was more than suspicious at this point. “As much as I like the idea of not having to tote a shit ton of groceries up four flights of stairs, why am I being dismissed? Of course I’m going to help you carry the groceries up, half of them are mine.”

“I was just being considerate. I know that you had to drive all the way across town to get to my apartment, and you have a drive to get back to yours; I don’t want to waste any more of your time.”

Santana was now so thoroughly confused that she didn’t exactly know who she was talking to. “I thought you said you wanted to be at your apartment tonight.”

“I do,” Quinn said. “And you said you wanted to relax for the evening, so I figured that meant that you wanted to be at your place. I’m going to be working on the reception, and I don’t want to keep you from relaxing.”

“So you’re mad,” Santana realized. Quinn was mad so Quinn was dismissing her.

Quinn kissed her, smiling slightly. “I’m not mad,” she repeated.

Despite Quinn’s insistence that she didn’t have to, Santana helped carry their groceries up, and then went on to carry her own perishable items upstairs too. When the last bag was brought up stairs, Quinn completely caught Santana off guard when she pushed her into the front door, and started to kiss her. Quinn was already undoing her pants by the time that her actions even slightly began to register, and the moment Santana started kissing her back, Quinn dropped to her knees. She made short work of her pants and underwear, holding Santana’s hips in place to keep her from moving. “Babe, what’re you doing?”

Quinn smiled up at Santana. “What does it look like I’m doing?” She buried her face in between her wife’s legs. Quinn continued to hold on to her for a few seconds after she came, but then, just as suddenly, got back on her feet, pulled Santana’s pants back up, and disappeared into the kitchen. Santana just kind of stood there, stunned, and was still standing there when Quinn returned with a beer in her hand. She twisted the top off and handed it to her. “Why don’t you sit down and relax, San,” she suggested, rubbing her neck and leading her over to the sofa. Santana was too dazed to do anything other than sit down and accept the remote Quinn gave her before she went back into the kitchen to finish unpacking the bags.

Santana was still trying to process the recent events when Quinn sat a sandwich and a small salad in front of her. She kissed her on the forehead. “I’ll be back,” she informed Santana.

Her eyes locked on Quinn’s retreating form, surprised to see that she had changed. “Hey? Where are you going?” she questioned, looking her over.

“Out for drinks with some co-workers,” Quinn replied. “I don’t know how late I’ll be. If you go home while I’m gone, don’t forget to lock up.”

Quinn gave Santana one last kiss on the forehead before disappearing out the door. Santana looked from her beer, to the food, to the empty apartment. “Fuck,” she muttered.

* * *

“Oh my god, is that _Raise your Glass_? I haven’t heard that song in forever. Turn it up!” Quinn started to dance on the spot, singing softly along with the lyrics, and letting her hips sway with the rhythm. A foot away, Connie was dancing along with her, her face flushed. When the song stopped, she collapsed back down on the stool. “You know what this place needs?” she demanded. “A karaoke machine!’”

Connie tugged on Quinn’s arm. “Quinn Fabray you are a mad woman,” she cheered. Quinn slammed back another shot, briefly wincing at the taste. “I am, aren’t I?”

Connie laughed. “I never knew you were so much fun!”

Quinn tilted her head back, and laughed loudly. “Ditto! Sorry I was late!”

“Hey, no prob., we’re just glad you came!”

Ryan came back to the table with Jamel, Paulette, and fresh drinks. He squirmed into the spot beside Quinn, leaning in on the pretense of being heard over the crowd. “Are you having fun, Quinn?”

Quinn turned her lips towards him. “I’m having a blast. Who knew you suits could be so damn fun?”

Her coworkers cheered. “Do you want to dance?” Ryan questioned. She gave an appraising glance at the hopeful look on his face.

“Sure,” she decided. He looked like Christmas had come early as she placed her hand in his. _It’s just a dance_ , she said to herself, wondering why those words sounded so familiar. 

* * *

Quinn let herself into her apartment at 10 minutes past 1, shedding clothes as she walked to her bedroom. She was surprised when she saw Santana sitting up in her bed, asleep over a book. Quinn sighed at the sight, fighting the urge to take the book out of her hand and sit it aside, carefully marking the place so that Santana wouldn’t have to go searching for it. She didn’t move, though, because she realized she was just as likely to throw the book across the room.

She suddenly felt like her space was being invaded. Sure it had been fun pretending for a little while, but this had always been her space. Her place. Her bed. But no, here was Santana, sleeping in it, after they had had sex, after she had left. Santana’s beer wasn’t supposed to be in her fridge, her shoes weren’t supposed to be on the floor by the couch. Santana shouldn’t feel comfortable enough to read a book in her bed. Hell, she shouldn’t be in her bed if she herself wasn’t in it. Quinn had been fooling herself. These past almost two months she had allowed herself to believe something that wasn’t true.

It was too late to change things tonight, but tomorrow they needed to have a conversation. She needed to know the terms of her and Noah’s bet so she knew for sure how long this charade was going to last, and she needed to lay some ground rule for _this,_ whatever _this_ was. She went to the wardrobe to pull on some sleep clothes, angrily brushing aside Santana’s.

She wasn’t sure if she had been making noise, or if Santana was just responding to the presence in the room, but when turned back around, Santana’s eyes were open, and just like the other night, she was appraising her.

“What time is it?” she questioned tiredly.

Quinn shrugged. “I didn’t look.” Her words were sharp, crisp. They had a snap to them that Santana didn’t miss. “I wasn’t expecting you to still be here.”

Santana didn’t miss either that, nor all of the other suggestions that Quinn had made about them not spending the night in the same place. It was obviously a pointed jab because they hadn’t slept apart since they’d gotten married.

Quinn wasn’t sure about the expression that crossed Santana’s face as she rubbed the sleep out of her eyes. “Why wouldn’t I be?” She sat her book on the nightstand. “Did you have fun with your coworkers?”

“A blast,” Quinn snapped.

Santana sighed, folding her hands in her lap. “I can’t read your mind, Quinn, so unless you tell me what it is that I did, I don’t fucking know!”

“Nothing,” Quinn shouted. “You didn’t freaking do anything.” Quinn tried to calm herself down. The alcohol in her system made it kind of hard. “Look, San, it’s late and we both have work in the morning. I just want to sleep. Is that cool with you?”

She watched Santana shrug, those all-knowing brown eyes staring through her. “Yea, sure babe.”

“Thank you.”

Quinn got under the covers on her side of the bed, a little miffed because now they had _sides_ when just a few months ago it had just been _her_ bed. (Well, sort of, she amended, because even when she and Santana were just screwing around, she still saw the right side as Santana’s side even when they weren’t _on_ and had never liked it when a guy had inserted himself there). She felt Santana shift on the bed, felt even more her hesitance before she leaned over Quinn to plant a kiss on her forehead. “Night, Quinn.”

Quinn mumbled a ‘night’ in return.

_Tomorrow_ , she thought as she trailed off to sleep. _We’ll talk tomorrow_.


	7. A little help from your friends

“Go for the Puckster!”

Even in a panicked state, Santana paused for a second at Noah’s greeting. “You’re so freaking lame, Puck.”

She could hear him ease into a more comfortable position. “You love me. What’s up?”

Santana remembered her reason for calling, and was back to feeling panicky. “I think I broke my wife. How do I fix her?”

“It’s only been a month! What the hell did you do, Lopez?” Puck demanded.

Santana contemplated Puck’s words and the way he was talking. “You don’t have a shirt on, do you?” she concluded.

“I’m off of work, I’m in my house, relaxing.” The way he said it made her wonder if Shelly said the same thing to him.

“Eww…gross, go…put a shirt on!”

“Are you _kidding_? You can’t even see me!”

“I can’t have a serious conversation with you when you’re half naked. Put a shirt on!”

“Fuck, San, you’re being ridiculous.”

“Shirt, Puck!”

Puck sat the phone down muttering about serving his country and crazy married bitches before he picked the phone back up again a minute later. “Are you happy?”

Santana studied his statement to make sure. “Yes.”

“Need I remind you that we’ve seen each other’s pleasure gardens before? Several times. And had our mouths-”

“Puck, please shut it before I lose my lunch, and seriously, pleasure gardens? Who says that?”

“Shelly,” Puck said defensively, “and it’s kind of sexy. Specially when she’s whispering it in this kind of low voice, and nibbling on my ear,”

“Puck, I do not need to hear about your vanilla sex life!”

“God, you’re no fun since you got married. Now what the hell did you do to my baby mama?”

“I didn’t do anything!” Santana said desperately. “Well, not anything that’s like different from the things that I normally do. So I really need you to do your thing where you explain women to me, cause I’m just so fucking confused right now. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with her. I mean things were going so well lately. The sex is great, we’ve been migrating things to each other places, we went grocery shopping together the other day, and we were having fun together, and then she just like…flipped or something.

“The other day I got home from work, and Quinn’s just naked and waiting for me. Butt naked, like no clothes anywhere. And then she just like slams me onto the table, and like just attacks me. It was crazy; like she was a tiger or something,” her fingers curled into claws and she swiped at the air, even though Noah couldn’t see her, “oh or one of those monkeys, the Bonobo.”

“Aren’t they chimps?”

“Like seriously, Puck? I’m trying to tell you something. She attacked me, we had like…monkey sex, and then she had dinner waiting for me! The day before that, she told me I didn’t have to put the groceries away, and she screwed me up against the door, and then handed me a beer.”

Santana could practically hear Noah trying not to conjure up a visual of that situation. “Umm…dude, not seeing where there’s a problem.”

“Does that _sound_ like Quinn to you? I mean sure she’s a secret closet freak, and once she was dressed up like a sexy school teacher and she totally punished me, but that’s not like this. When I tried to return the favor, she wouldn’t let me. She hasn’t let _me_ _touch_ her, and she doesn’t want to cuddle with me, but she keeps on doing these really nice, passive aggressive things for me.”

“You must have done something to really piss her off,” he decided.

Santana peeked over the couch forgetting that she was alone in the apartment. Her voice dropped to almost a whisper. “This isn’t Quinn pissed. Trust me, I know Quinn pissed. We haven’t had Quinn pissed off sex. I haven’t felt her slapping genius across my face.”

Noah was quiet, thinking about it. “What’s the last thing that you did, you know like that you remember?”

“I don’t know! Like I said, we went grocery shopping together, and that was nice, and we were supposed to go to my place after, but we went back to hers instead, and I think she was talking about the reception, and then she went out with her coworkers, and the next thing I know: broken. You know: she did come home smelling like some chintzy body wash or cologne that smells like douchebag, pretension, and desperation, so it has to belong to like one of her coworkers who she went out drinking with. I didn’t say anything to her about it, but-” Santana gasped. “Do you think that she made out with one of her coworkers? Do you think she cheated and she’s like doing all of this out of guilt?” She didn’t like the sound of his silence. “That’s it, isn’t it? She cheated on me!”

“Oh, shit, don’t go all emotional on me, San. I get enough female emotion from the wife, man up!” Puck felt like he had a sudden brain fart. “Hold on a sec before you go all off on the deep end. What did you say to her about the reception?”

Santana had to stop in her freak out. “What do you mean what did I say? Who cares about the reception? Quinn’s _cheating_!”

“Quinn’s not cheating; you’re just an idiot, Lopez.”

“Harsh, bro!”

“No, listen, I went through this with Shelly. She just kept going on, and on, and on about lavender table cloths, and I was just like what the fuck do I care what color the table cloths are, and then she just had a freak out, and next thing I know, she’s talking about canceling the wedding. Quinn wants lavender table cloths,” he finished knowingly. If she had been there to see it, he would have gave his head a nod.

“See I told you back in high school that all that weed that you smoked was going to kill your brain cells but you didn’t listen.”

“Listen, Flopez, this is pure wisdom here: Shelly didn’t want me to want lavender table cloths, she wanted me to care. Like lavender table cloths are a euthanized of our relationship.”

“A euphemism?”

“Yea. Like it’s supposed to mean that since I don’t care about the table cloths, I don’t care about the wedding, and if I don’t care about the wedding, I don’t care about _us_.” Santana imagined Puck shaking his head. “I don’t get it either, but that was just how she was feeling.”

“Yeah, but the big difference here is that Quinn and I are already married, Puck, so it’s not like she has to doubt that I’m actually going to show up or anything. I already showed up.”

“Yeah, and how many other dudes out there showed up and then ended the marriage a couple of years later? Women like Quinn, it’s not enough for you to just show up once. You gotta keep showing up if you want her to think that you care.”

Santana hated that Noah was making so much sense. It kind of felt like a sin against nature.

“I _do_ care. Not about napkins, and invitations, or anything like that, that’s just dumb. Everything’s going to end up in the trashcan 10 minutes after the reception is over so I don’t get the point of getting worked up about them, which is why I just want to leave the details to her and my mom so I don’t impede her enthusiasm. She didn’t get the big wedding so I want Quinn to have her perfect reception. I’ve known her since we were tweens; I know how much she wants all that girly type stuff, even though she tries to pretend that she’s like the non-girly one. I just want her to have a special day the way she wants it.”

“And did you say that to her?”

Santana nodded vigorously. “I told her it’s whatever she wants.”

She heard shuffling in the background. “You also got married to her so you could beat me to the altar. Just curious. Does she _know_ about the bet?” Santana bit down on her lip. “Are you a moron, Lopes? And you call me dumb!”

Santana shifted on the couch indignantly. “You’re telling me Shelly doesn’t know about it?”

“Well, yeah, I told her like two years ago. You know, just casual conversation when we were getting to know each other. As we were falling in love with each other, planning our lives together, that sort of thing. She knows that I didn’t marry her over a bet.”

“Okay, so I might have married her because of the bet, but I’m here now, right, and I proposed with my abuela’s ring, she knows that it’s a family ring, and I gave her four orgasms when I gave it to her. _Four_ , Noah! I even told her she could have the driveway parking space.”

“Shit you gave her the driveway?” She could tell Noah was impressed.

“I know, right! If that doesn’t say love, I don’t know what does!”

It seemed fairly foolproof to Noah, but women complicated things. “You know how Quinn is. She doesn’t believe things right away, so you have to show her. That’s the only way she’ll believe it.”

Santana sat in silence for a minute, thinking. She might have come out of nowhere with the proposal, yeah, but she was committed to it, to them. Once upon a time they had been really good friends. So what if the friendship had sort of died off with the integration of sex; they had been friends for a reason, and _not_ just because they were too gorgeous, conniving, self-serving bitches. “Well, I’ve got an ace or two I can play, but if I trot it out now I’ve got nothing for the rest of our marriage.” She stopped because something occurred to her. “Wait, I think I’ve got an idea!”

“That could be dangerous, Santana. What is it?”

“Quinn want’s excitement, I’ll show her excitement. Like Tom Cruise flipping his nuts in front of Oprah excitement.”

Noah only laughed because he was sure that whatever it was Santana was thinking about was about to turn into a royal mess. He only hated that he didn’t have a front row seat to it.

* * *

Santana eagerly stopped the car outside of the studio building. She reached for Quinn’s hand. “Are you ready?”

Quinn’s eyes looked up in appraisal of the building in front of them, of the identical buildings that were around them. “Why are we here again?”

Santana tugged on her arm until she was looking at her. “So you can’t back out of the reception,” she teased. Santana hesitated a moment before leaning over the console and planting a kiss on Quinn’s lips. “We’re doing this because I’m excited about the reception, and I want to share it with our world.”

Quinn almost smiled but caught herself before she did. “Really?”

“Yep. So let’s do this!”

Santana released Quinn’s hand only long enough for the two of them to get out of the car, before she was once again securing her hand in her own. “She’s not going to ask us anything ridiculous is she?”

“Nah. We’re just there to mention our reception, which all of the Glee kids will see, and then we’ll stay for some chat and to listen to some music. That’s it.”

The two of them checked in with security, got their passes, and were led onto the set. There was a loud squeal from the other side of the set, and moments later Santana felt herself being lifted into the air by deceptively strong arms. “San!” she was replaced on the ground, only for Quinn to be hugged tightly. “I’m so glad you came! Are you exited? Guess who’s here: Samilia Rose! You want to meet her? She’s in the green room?”

“Samilia?” Quinn questioned, just as excited. “I would love to, I love her music!”

“She’ll be on set as soon as you guys are done, and I’ll introduce you, yah? Oh, you two have to go to hair and make-up, so they can glam you up, and then you just come back here, and sit down. We’ll chat for a second, and then we’ll get started.” There was one last squeal. “I’m so glad you’re here!” A kiss was placed on Santana’s cheek before they were led away.

30 minutes later they were being brought back out to the main set. A production assistant showed them to their seats. Quinn and Santana were seated on opposite sides of the table, with about five feet left between them. Santana moved to move the chairs closer together, but was stopped. “It’s got to be set up that way for camera angels,” she was informed.

“What about if we sit on the same side?” Santana questioned. She knew that Quinn was nervous, so she wanted to be close to her to set her mind at ease. She’d never done one of these before.

“Can’t, it throws the whole feel off.” Brittany winked at Santana. “Don’t worry, you can get your hands on her soon enough. So are you guys ready?”

There was no other warning before the theme music was blasted on the speakers. 

“ _Fondue for Two, Fondue for Two, that’s one hot dish, Fondue for Two!”_

Brittany smiled at the center camera. “Welcome back to Fondue for Two! My next guests are two former Cheerios and 2/3rds of the Unholy Trinity who pretended to hate each other in high school in an attempt to hide their obvious sexual tension, finally slept with each other at their former teacher’s failed wedding after graduation, and then didn’t talk to each other for a few months while one of them pretended to like men, and the other hooked up with me all over the Greek Isle! Welcome Santana Lopez and Quinn Fabray!”

“Lopez,” Santana mumbled automatically before she cast a glance at Quinn, who looked like she was hoping that she could disappear. “Britt, I thought we agreed that you wouldn’t mention anything like that while we were on the air.”

Brittany smiled sweetly at the camera. “I know of no such agreements.” She turned towards Quinn. “Quinn, is it true you made up a story about having sex with your professor just to make Santana jealous, and then slapped her when she rained down her supreme, awesome, harsh words of truth on you because all you really wanted to do was push her into the piano and ravish her, but you didn’t have the guts to do so?”

“Brittany!” Quinn hissed, blushing red.

“What?” Brittany questioned innocently. “It’s okay because Santana and I weren’t dating at the time. Also, is it true that you use Santana and my sex tape as “spank bank” and secretly fantasize about us having a threesome?”

“Oh, okay,” Santana said, shifting in her seat and glad that there was space between all three of them, because even though it meant that she couldn’t place a reassuring hand on top of Quinn’s, it also meant that Quinn couldn’t tackle Brittany. “Enough of that, Britt,” Santana said quickly, firmly. She leaned in towards Quinn and softly whispered, “Babe, is that true?”

Brittany smiled at the middle camera. “I have it on good authority that it is,” she asserted at the same time that Quinn gave a helpless chuckle. “Ummm…help?”

Santana looked to the camera. This was definitely not going the way she’d wanted it to. “As interesting as that may or may not be, we’re not here to discuss our sex lives, Britt. We decided to come on the show tonight to share with you, and the rest of our friends,” she waved to indicate the camera, “and of course your viewers, the news that Quinn and I have decided to get married, and next month we’re having a reception to celebrate the big moment with all of you!”

“Umm…yes,” Quinn chimed in, still obviously flustered. “Invitations will be in the mail on Monday, but we, umm…we came, here, to share that, some fondue, and to dish.”

Brittany clapped. “So invitations should be making their way to your home within the next five to seven days, and if you don’t receive one, it’s because you’re not important enough,” Brittany chirped. “I will, of course, be sharing the best clips with you, so even if you’re not there, it’ll still feel like you were!” Quinn fiddled with the fondue just to have something to do. She may have even nervously eaten some of it if Santana didn’t stop her. “You’ll really hate yourself if you do that,” she hissed. 

Around them Brittany was still talking. “And you’re really going to want to see them because a Santana Lopez party is going to be just _awe_ some, ‘cause Sannie knows how to really throw a party! You remember the one you threw in Mykonos?” She turned to one of the side cameras. “Fun fact, guys, the word debauchery comes from the Greek god Bacchus who is the god of having a really,” she winked at Santana, “ _really_ good time. Also, _never_ get locked up abroad.

“And speaking of good times, what Hollywood princess got caught with her hand in the cookie jar? Literally?” Brittany continued with insider gossip for the next ten minutes before teasing her audience about who her next guest would be. Quinn chimed in, but her mind was definitely not with them, and she looked incredibly flushed by the time that they were given the signal that they were no longer filming.

Quinn didn’t hesitate to jump out of her seat as soon as the light went off. Santana got up, too, in case Quinn was going to jump on Brittany, though she had every mind to let her if she did. In less than five minutes Britt had ruined her perfectly constructed plan. Brittany’s next guest, Samile Rose, who was now waiting in the wings, had been her initial reason for wanting to do the show. Santana knew how much Quinn loved Samile, and she was going to see (plead, beg) if Samile could be convinced to perform at their reception. She had intended to mention it while they were filming, and get Brittany in on it, too, but as soon as Brittany had given the introduction, all thoughts of that had gone out of her mind as one of her best friends’ snowballed her in front of a national audience. 

As soon as Santana realized that Quinn wasn’t going to attack, she moved to comfort her wife. “Are you okay?” she questioned of Quinn, concern in her voice.

Quinn nodded, dazed, not looking at Santana. “Yeah.”

She kissed her on the forehead, rubbing a soothing hand down her back. “Why don’t you go sit in the car? I’ll be right out, okay babe?”

Quinn nodded. Once she was gone, Santana stalked back to the middle of the set, battling scenes of nostalgia as she moved. The _Fondue_ set was set-up to look like a mockup of Brittany’s old bedroom back in Lima. In college _Fondue for Two_ had emerged from a McKinley High thing, to an actual internet sensation. Now the show was filmed on a studio set, she had a hair, make-up, and costume team, she had corporate sponsors, a set upgrade, the works, (but as a running gag the fondue was just as bad now as it had been back in high school). Between _Fondue for Two_ , and the dance studio, Brittany was surprisingly doing quite well for herself; without Santana’s help. Santana loved that. She had enjoyed watching Brittany grow (and grow up). After their brief Greek reconnection, they had gone their separate ways, but had remained on good terms ever since. At least that’s what Santana had thought.

Brittany was at the moment surrounded by an assistant and her stylist who was attempting to refresh her hair, but the second she noticed Santana she waved them both away. Santana scowled, stopping a few feet short of Brittany, a little worried to be any closer to her because she wasn’t sure what she would do. “Thanks for coming on again,” she said airily “it was like spending time with each other back in high school again, wasn’t it? Don’t you miss it, San?”

Santana fought against her rising anger. “Brittany, that was so _not_ cool. Do you realize that you completely embarrassed Quinn? Y _our friend_.”

Brittany smiled as she rolled her eyes. “Hey, if you can’t handle the fire, stay out of the Fondue pot.”

Santana appraised Brittany’s aloof attitude and flippant comment. Where had that come from? Certainly it hadn’t been there at either her or Puck’s wedding so where was it coming from, and why now? “Is something going on that you aren’t telling me about, Britt? Like did I forget a birthday or something?”

Brittany’s lips thinned into a line. “What’re you doing, Santana?” she demanded, disapproval was evident in her voice.

“What do you mean what am I doing?”

“You’re in love with Quinn.” It sounded to her a lot like an accusation.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

Brittany pouted. “You promised that you would always love me most.”

Brittany’s words froze Santana on the spot, not sure that she had entirely heard her correctly. Had Brittany actually said that? She wasn’t sure what she was supposed to do with the girl in this situation. At one point, Santana had been so very sure that Brittany had been the love of her life. When they were in high school, she always imagined that she would just follow Brittany wherever the girl would lead, sacrificing whatever dream she may have come up with in order to help Brittany with her own.

Santana’s eyes narrowed. “So you just embarrassed your friend in front of our friends and your viewers because you’re jealous that I’m with Quinn, and you decided right then that you want to stake a claim? How long have Quinn and I been sleeping together, Britt? You came to our wedding, and you wait until now to say something? In case you forgot, you’re married, and so am I. That promise I made to you ended a long time ago, Britt. I will always love you, and I want to always be your friend, besties for life and all that, but Quinn is my wife. Not my girlfriend, my wife. If you ever pull something like this-”

Brittany rolled her eyes, smiling at Santana in a way that had always gotten her to fall into bed with her back in high school. She stalked towards Santana. “Come _on_ , San.” She batted her eyelashes. “You and I both know that what we have is magic and no one will ever compare to what we have. You made a bet with Puck, and you won,” she clapped, “yea…congratulations, but let’s not kid ourselves that you’re doing anything other than playing at a marriage with Quinn. As soon as you get bored, you’ll come back to me like you always do. So let’s be honest with each other, cause it makes me sad when you lie.” Brittany’s hand moved to stroke her cheek tenderly before she pressed a kiss onto Santana’s lips. It was over before Santana even had a chance to react. “We both know you’ll always belong to me, so don’t be stupid and wait too long to come to your senses.”

Brittany skipped back to the center of the set and sat down in her seat, cuing to the producer that she was ready for her next guest.


	8. Just Thought You Should Know

When Santana got to the car, Quinn was siting practically hunched up in the passenger seat, staring blankly at the concrete wall in front of her. Santana tentatively approached the car and got in. "Quinn?"

Quinn cut her off. "If you're going to make some joke about that, please don't."

Santana placed a hand on top of Quinn's. "I wasn't. I'm sorry; I didn't know Brittany was going to do that."

"Santana, please just be quiet," Quinn said, softly. "Can we just go home, now?"

Inwardly, Santana actually considered it a small victory that she had said 'home' and not 'your apartment'. "Sure, babe, yeah."

Santana turned the car on and pointed it in the direction of home. As soon as she unlocked the door, Quinn went straight into the bedroom, closing the door firmly behind her. Santana, who had been following almost in her footsteps, recoiled when the door nearly slammed in her face. She knocked. "Quinn? Baby?"

"Leave me alone, Santana."

Santana flinched at what she was about to say. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not now, Santana!"

Santana stood outside the door of the bedroom for a few minutes longer before she went back into the living room with a resigned sigh. She didn't want to disturb Quinn with the TV, for obvious reasons the Internet felt like a betrayer, and she didn't think her mind could concentrate on a big people's book, so she dug into her collection of children's books which were just as good, and often more profound. She started off with _Green Eggs and Ham_ because really, what other book out there could so completely sum up the complexities of the human spirit and make you feel better after you may or may not have just lost your best friend and screwed things up with your wife?

She moved on to _Horton Hears a Who,_ but couldn't finish it because it just made her seem that much sadder. _One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish_ got her back to where she wanted to be, and _Fox in Sox_ almost put a smile on her face, but then she had to quit Dr. Seuss because too much of it could make your head hurt. So she moved on to _Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day,_ which seemed so apropos, then _Rainbow Fish_ which made her think of Brittany, and almost caused her to cry, until finally she settled on _Stellaluna_ , which of course made her want to call her mom. So she did.

She answered on the first ring. "Carina it's way too early for you to be calling me about marital problems," Maribel said in greeting.

"Who says that's why I'm calling?" Santana whined.

"So you're not? Well then, lo siento, mija, pido disculpas. I apologize for jumping to conclusions." It sounded less like an apology and more like her mother was laughing at her. "Why are you calling me, then, my sweet princesa?"

"I should have called to talk to dad," Santana pouted.

"No, no, talk. What's wrong?"

"Okay, so I am calling about marital problems," Santana admitted. She quickly gave her mom a quick recap of the past couple of days.

"That bitch!" Maribel hissed when she got to the part about _Fondue for Two_. Although Santana was known for lapsing into Spanish rants when she was really angry, her mother was the opposite. Terms of endearment, of love, excited exclamations (or the very rare calling someone a cheap whore) were spoken in Spanish, while "filthy words" were almost always said in English.

" _Mother_!"

"What, mija! I've never liked that scrawny ditz," Maribel said. "I'm just glad I can finally say that!"

Santana wasn't sure why but she felt the need to defend Brittany. "She's my best friend!"

"She didn't sound very friendly," her mother stressed. Santana found it hard to argue, and she hadn't even told her mother about the rest, about Brittany kissing her. She heard Mercedes words in her head and knew that she had to tell Quinn about that, but she really didn't want to. If she could help it, she didn't want to bring it up before the reception. Damn it: going on Brittany's show was supposed to make things _better_.

"I don't know what was going through Brittany's mind," Santana admitted. "But now Quinn's sad, and this was supposed to make up for something before, and things just went from bad to worse, and I don't know what to do about it, mami!"

"Mija, it sounds to me like what you really need to be doing is to talk to her about everything that's going on between you two, and not me, and not Puck, and not to the internet, and you really need to get on this reception thing, and pronto. Comprende?"

"Yo entiendo, mami. Trust me, Puck's already explained the whole meaning behind the reception/wedding that we already had thingy, which is what I was doing, or trying to do when I went on _Fondue for Two._ You know, show her that I care about the event and everything."

"Okay, so go say all that to your wife."

"She's upset right now, and I'm trying to give her some space."

"You know what I call that, mija-,"

"Procrastination. Si, mami, I know. Fine, wish me luck."

"Suerte, mija."

Santana had just ended the call when her phone was ringing again in her hand. "Hello?"

"What the _hell_ was that?"

Although Santana was thrilled by this brief reprieve from actually having to face Quinn, she would have preferred if it could have been anyone else. Well, except maybe Berry. 

"It wasn't my fault!" Santana protested. "Brittany snowballed me! I wasn't expecting her to do that."

Mercedes sucked her teeth. "No? You mean you had no clue that Brittany might harbor some resentment over Quinn, and might take advantage of an opportunity to air some of that resentment? Really?" She was making it seem like Santana was really dumb at the moment. She continued in the same semi-patronizing voice. "Santana, please tell me how it is that you are smart enough to figure out that Quinn and Finn were cheating by just a _look_ and yet you haven't yet figured out that your two best friends can't actually stand each other?"

Out of all possible combinations of words that Santana expected to hear spoken from the Diva, those were never it. Why was everybody suddenly ganging up on Brittany? "Ummm…hello, we're the Unholy Trinity, remember? Of course they like each other!"

"You think so?" Mercedes questioned. "Tell me again, how many times in the past were the two of them alone with each other? How many sleepovers did the two of them have just Quinn and Brittany? How many times did you see them dance together when we were singing in Glee? How many times were they involved in anything without you being there?"

"Tons!" Santana said immediately, because honestly she couldn't fathom having missed something like that. 

"Really? That often. Huh, I must have missed it. So how many times a week does Brittany call Quinn up _just_ to chat?"

Santana had to think about it, and couldn't say because of course she didn't monitor Quinn's phone call conversations. "I don't know who Quinn talks to on the phone!"

"Take it from someone who used to live with her, they aren't friendly with each other. The only time Quinn would mention Brittany was if she was talking about you. When she was pregnant, Brittany didn't come by our house even once. When she was in the hospital, Brittany never stopped by to visit. When Quinn went off to Yale, they didn't continue to talk to each other. They might have sent each other Christmas or birthday cards, I don't know. I doubt it, though, because they're not friends. I don't know why that is," her tone suggested otherwise. She snapped her fingers. "Oh, maybe it's because they always felt like they were fighting over someone," Mercedes said airily. "Gee, I wonder who it could be?"

Santana couldn't give Mercedes words any weight until she had time to actually process them. Of course Quinn and Brittany liked each other. They were besties. Besides, she had more pressing things to attend to. "So, since you know Quinn so well, how do I fix this? Cause if I dig myself any further into a hole, I'll be looking at China."

"Ooh, if you end up there, can you get me a keychain of like the Great Wall?"

"You're not helpful, Mercedes."

"Just saving my energy for when I have to comfort Quinn, Satan."

 _Well then why the hell did you call for_ , Santana felt like shouting after she hung up with Mercedes. Her eyes were drawn to the door of the bedroom, where she imagined that Quinn was waiting like an angry dragon, or even worse. What if she was at the other end of the spectrum entirely? Quinn could practically cry on command. She wasn't sure she could handle her tears.

God showed that she was indeed one of His favored children when, once again, her phone rang, forestalling the conversation she was about to have with her wife. This time it was her dad which only meant one thing. 

"You married a woman with a big mouth," Santana began the conversation. 

"Watch yours, Santana," her dad warned sternly. "You're not too old to get popped in it. She is forever and will always be your mom."

"Sorry, dad."

"And yes, she does have a big mouth," he agreed. "She explained to me your situation, so I thought that I could pass down some timeless advice that my daddy once shared with me."

"I could pretty much use anything at this point."

"I don't know how lesbian relationships work, you know like when it comes to how things go in the relationship with there being two girls and what not, but my dad offered me this golden nugget of advice, so I am passing it on to you. He said 'Pedro, you are a Lopez, and when it comes to the women that we marry, no matter what, you're always wrong. You _always_ apologize first. It doesn't matter if you told her that if she lights a candle the house is going to explode, and she lights a candle and then the house explodes. Somehow, you are wrong for that. Apologize, and move on'."

"But-,"

Mr. Lopez didn't give her the chance to interrupt. "Apologize, and move on," he repeated, saying the words slower and with more weight this time. "Happy wife, happy life."

That seemed to be the extent to the conversation, and he hung up almost immediately after. _Well, fine,_ Santana thought _but this totally and irrefutable means that I carry the ovaries in our relationship_. And hey she _was_ wrong about the reception. She'd admit that. Well, not wrong so much as incommunicative. She was also willing to go as far as to say that she had _contributed_ to Quinn's frustration, and while she couldn't have done anything, or really have known that Brittany was going to embarrass Quinn like that, if she had just ponytailed up and told Quinn that she was excited about the reception, then she wouldn't have needed the show to do it for her (except that it would have been totally awesome for Samile Rose to have performed at their reception).

Santana paused for a few more minutes just to see if God would show his intervention one last time and have Puck or someone else call, but no dice. Santana put her phone on the charger just to gain herself a few more seconds, then went searching for Quinn's phone because Quinn _always_ was forgetting to charge it. When she finally made it into the bedroom, Quinn was either fast asleep, or doing a fair job of pretending that she was. Santana sighed in relief, before placing a kiss on her forehead, and curling around her wife. "Good night, babe."

* * *

Santana woke up bright and early the next morning, rolling out of bed as soon as her eyes were open so she could get started on breakfast. Not only had Santana so far kept her promise about making breakfast on Saturday mornings, she was pretty compulsive about it. She looked up recipes frequently throughout the week, even set an alarm so she wouldn't oversleep. She actually looked forward to getting up to cook for her wife. It was nice to have someone to cook for. Because Santana had a lot more to do than usual, she had woken up earlier. She wanted things to be absolutely perfect for Quinn, feeling with certainty that a full stomach made unpleasant conversations slightly less unpleasant. 

She didn't actually have a kitchen table (or a dining room table either for that matter), so she set out a spread on the counter buffet style. When she was done with preparing the meal, the last thing she always did on Saturday mornings was to set a pot of coffee on so Quinn's subconscious knew that when she smelled coffee it was time to wake up. (The Keurig was used only for the mundane, less dramatic, week day and Sunday breakfasts). Before she turned it on, she gave one last survey of her work. She was proud of herself. She had gone all out this morning, her p _ièce de résistance_ being a platter of perfectly fried bacon. She had almost not needed the coffee to bring her wife out of bed.

Santana picked up her remote and rushed over to Quinn as soon as she emerged from the bedroom. "Morning," she said, placing a kiss on her lips. "Are you feeling better?"

Quinn didn't answer, her eyes taking in the spread in front of her. It looked a lot like guilt. Her eyes landed on the cupcakes at the end of the counter. There were seven of them, arranged in an arc, each a different color, with different color frosting on them. "What're those?"

Santana gestured proudly. "Those are your coming out cakes. One for each color of the rainbow; that's like our flag or something. I told you I'd make you a cake, and I said what I meant and meant what I said, so congrats! You're now one of us!" Santana pushed a button on her remote and _I'm coming out_ flooded the apartment.

Quinn's lips tightened, but she couldn't honestly say if it was from trying not to smile, or because she was agitated. When Santana's hip started to sway, and she flashed her an irresistible smile, her own smile won out, and she allowed Santana to take her hands. They danced around the kitchen together, singing along with the words. Santana sang most of the chorus while Quinn chimed in with the "I'm coming outs".

"So what's the meaning of all this?" she questioned, once the music had subsided, and she was leaning against the counter.

A more sober expression landed on Santana's face. She sat down on the barstool and pulled Quinn to her. "I'm sorry about Brittany." Quinn got a pinched look on her face. "Honestly, babe, I didn't know she was going to do that. It shocked me, too. It wasn't cool, and I told her that that kind of stuff can't happen again. She's my best friend, but you're my wife.

"Also, I'm sorry that the show was a disaster; I was just trying to show you that I care about the reception, and all the work that you've put into it. I know that I haven't put, like, a lot of effort into helping you, but I'm going to be like the energizer bunny from now on. I promise. We've got all day today to work on anything that we need to work on: menus, patterns, anything, and I've got to work tomorrow, but mami is going to be available for video chat all day, and as soon as I get home from work you can put me to work."

"You have to work on Sunday?" Quinn questioned, skeptically. Santana didn't exactly have a 9-5 but she'd so far always had the weekends off. She felt slightly bad about having doubts about Santana's honesty, especially after Santana had just said that she had put her before Brittany.

"Every now and then I do. Paulianne needed someone to come in, and I volunteered, which is why I was off early on Friday. And I just have to say, we gotta start going out and doing _something_ on Friday nights, cause we are way too young to be sitting at home like we're old and have forgotten how to have fun."

Quinn thought over Santana's words. "You mean like a date?"

Santana paused, like actually froze. "Yea."

"You want to?" Quinn questioned. "We've never gone on one before."

"Well, I might," Santana said leadingly, "you know, if you asked me correctly."

Quinn's hesitation was brief. "Santana, will you go on a date with me next weekend?"

Santana's head bobbed eagerly, leaning in to give her a kiss. "Well, duh. It's about time you asked, Flopez."

"Okay, no," Quinn said, almost as soon as the utterance was said. "That has Puck all over it, which, no, just no. You do know I have a first name, right?"

"Of course I know you do, babe," Santana winked at her. "I enjoy screaming it out."

Quinn just flashed a smile that was created expressly for dealing with Santana. She leaned into her, brushing her lips as lightly as possible over them.

Santana left Quinn to finish eating her breakfast while she got ready for the day, leaving her with the special playlist she had created. When the playlist got to _La Vie, Boheme_ , it was so outrageous that Quinn played it again just to make sure that she'd actually heard the things she thought she did. Her first run through, had her lips thinning out, and she had a look of nausea on her features. The next run through she listened more aware of the lyrics this time, and just as disgusted as she'd been the first time. The third run through, she was singing along with the parts that she had figured out.

"You're supposed to scream when it gets to the part about bisexuals, Quinn."

Quinn did scream, then, because she had so not heard the shower cut off, or Santana enter the room. Santana laughed, even as Quinn's hand lightly slapped her arm. "Not funny!"

"Sorry, baby," Santana whispered, smiling as she said it.

"What the hell is this?" Quinn questioned. Santana didn't immediately know what she was talking about, a new song, _We Are Family!_ had started playing.

" _We are family?"_

"No, the one about the gays." Santana hid a laugh at the way Quinn had whispered the word gay, despite the fact that they were alone in their kitchen, at home, and that she was married and had been having sex with a woman for nine years.

She remembered the song that Quinn had been listening to when she came into the room. " _La Vie Boheme_? It's from RENT."

Santana nearly had a heart attack at the next words out of Quinn's mouth. "What is RENT?" She gripped the countertop for support. No one could say that Santana was one to like show tunes, but she had discovered RENT in the $5 bargain bin at Wal-Mart when she was smack dab in the middle of her _Am I in love with Brittany_? stage of life. She had gotten 40 minutes into it the first time she watched, got disgusted and turned it off. It'd taken her a whole year before she attempted to watch it again, this time making it as far as Rosario Dawson dancing on stage, and decided that since she had gotten this far, she might keep watching. The image was enough to push her into the second act, where she decided that she could get over the fact that they kept freaking singing because _La Vie Boheme_ could have been a portrait of her life; even without the lines about being gay in it.

"How do you not know what _RENT_ is? The song Mercedes and Rachel sang in their diva-off was from that play, and the gay woman, Maureen, happens to look an awful lot like your baby's mom. Besides, Rent's like the national anthem for every 'other' out there!"

Quinn shifted uncomfortably. "Until I married you, San, I've never actually been an other." She gestured to her blonde hair, her hazel eyes, her ramrod straight nose. All things (well, except for the eyes unless you counted the use of contacts) that had actually been purchased.

"Hate to break it to you, babe, but even without being bi-, you're still an other: you had a baby at 16, you were confined to a wheel chair, and you willingly, _willingly_ stayed in Glee even when you didn't have to. Granted, you have all the freedom of walking down the street and not being harassed by the cops, and no one confuses you or treats you like you're the maid, but you were still born an other. Deal with it baby!"

Quinn's merely rolled her eyes in answer. And then her eye roll landed on Santana and she realized that the woman was wearing nothing but a towel. Her eyes swept along the parts of her body that were partly on display. Santana caught her flat out gawking, and she chuckled. "Go take a shower, Quinn, so we can go."

Quinn was still eyeing her body. "Where are we going?" Quinn questioned.

"I figure there's places that you need to drag me to, and what not, and I thought while we're out," Santana paused to pick up a piece of fruit, merely to have something to do, "we might as well open a joint account."

Quinn didn't follow. "A joint account at what?"

Santana appeared to be studying very hard a crack in the counter. "The bank, Quinn."

Quinn felt something stir in the pit of her belly. It was almost like arousal, but wasn't quite. Fear maybe. "You want to open a joint bank account?"

Santana shrugged, still playing with the food. "Well, yeah. It's kind of what married people do, you know? You don't like have to put in all of your savings in it or anything, I mean, if you have any, or your whole paycheck or anything, but I was thinking that we should at least have _something_ in a joint account for the times that we shop for each other, things like that. I'm pretty responsible when it comes to money, and I'm just going to assume that you are, too; when I was reading up on WASPs and their habits, I think I read something that said something about the bank being part of your natural habitat."

"Oh, that is so not funny," Quinn chastised. She felt her eyes drawn to Santana's fidgeting hand. She could tell that this was something that Santana really seemed to want.

"I'm not saying no," she said slowly, "but don't you think it's a bit soon, the whole bank account thing?"

Santana shrugged as if the thought had never occurred to her at all. "If you don't want to, we don't have to, it's not like I'm going to pressure you into it or something, but I just figured why not? I'm not too fussed about length of time and building trust cause it doesn't really matter how long we've been married; we never signed a pre-nup. So, if we end up getting a divorce you could totally shanghai me if you wanted to, anyway."

She focused on the most pressing part of that statement. How had they not gotten a pre-nup? Okay, so quickie weddings tended to not have all the paperwork worked out, but she could have even sworn that Santana had been singing along to _Gold Digger_ the very day that they got their wedding license. Not only did she have no idea what Santana made, she didn't even know what Santana _did_ for a living. Their apartments were pretty comparable (Quinn's was a little bigger), so she figured that meant their financial situations were probably the same as well, but that was just guessing. Who doesn't sign a pre-nup?

Quinn wondered if Santana could hear her thoughts because the next words out of her mouth were, "If I don't ever intend to get a divorce, why sign one? I mean if things go seriously south between us, I'll probably just kill you. Kidding, babe!" She said quickly at the look on Quinn's face. "I swear, I'm just kidding. Think it over, yeah? It doesn't have to be today, or ever, just a thought."

Santana went into the bedroom to go change into clothes, and Quinn went off to shower. She heard the chime on her phone just as she was getting out. When another one came a few seconds later, she got curious, and went searching it out, smiled at the fact that Santana had put on the charger for her. The smile fell from her face, though, when she saw the text message that had been sent, her eyes reading, and rereading the words that had accompanied the picture text: _Just thought you should know_.


	9. From Worse to Worser (Basically a Whole Lot of Suck)

Quinn knew anger. Sometimes she wondered if she was nothing more than pure anger in place of where a soul should be, wrapped up in skin with a poor complexion, hair that was the wrong color, eyes that didn’t properly put the world into focus, and a nose that was more like a beak than anything else. She was the very definition of an ugly duckling. Friendless, anything but small, and unwanted. Back before Francine had become Frannie Fabray, she used to allow Quinn to toddle after her; back when she was still just her older sister who went out of the way to make her laugh. Back before her father’s eyes shifted past her to more pleasant things, and her mother started hiding her from sight like a skilled magician using slight of hands to convince you that the rabbit wasn’t already hiding in the hat. _“Where’s Lucy?” “Oh, did you hear that_ Frannie _was asked to be in the National Junior Honor Society?” “Did you bring Lucy along?” “Did you know that_ Frannie _made the cheerleading team?”_

After a while Quinn had started to feel as if she really were invisible, less than worthy of attention and affection. Whenever she had those thoughts, it made her angry because she wasn’t invisible. Even though she was the only one who seemed to think so, she was just as good as Frannie, just as worthy of love, and affection, and attention, as her older sister. She hated her classmates who thought that it was okay to tease her, and the teachers for ignoring it, for shrugging it off and pointing out, _“But you’re bigger than them, Lucy,”_ as if girth meant that the smaller people couldn’t, or wouldn’t, touch her. She found comfort in books, and comfort in being alone, and all the while she felt this anger, slow burning and pure, growing beneath her skin. It’s the kind of anger that grows like a raging fire, unable to be put out because those around her kept stoking the flames and building it up.

She was tired of being alone, tired of being picked on, tired of no one doing anything about it, until she finally learned how to fight back. Not face to face, no. If she took on her tormenters, it would make her a bully, if she demanded to be seen by her parents, it would make her petulant and disobedient. So she had to adopt circuitous methods to get back at those who did her wrong. She started to water down her mother’s alcohol so her drinks were all less potent, so her father thought that she was drinking more because of how quickly she went through the bottles. She left tells of her father’s infidelity around for her mother to catch. She altered Frannie’s cheerleading uniform so that a well-placed tear exposed her sister to a crowd of unsuspecting gawkers. She was so good at subterfuge that no one knew she was doing it, so she wasn’t given her due for her sheer genius, which just made her angrier.

Quinn credits that anger as the real reason for her weight loss. For her change. Her school teachers, and Sunday school teachers, and the corny shows on TV said that if you were yourself, people would like you, but no one liked Lucy. Everyone liked Quinn. Everyone wanted her. Quinn woke up one day to realize that people could actually see her, they adored her, which only infuriated her more because she was still who she always was, she had just tweaked the wrapper a little bit. The sudden shift in attention did nothing to eliminate the anger that had already rooted deep within her. Having the kind of people who used to torment her suddenly fawn over her, was not penance enough. She was still set on revenge. Revenge against anyone who was pretty, and successful, and so powerful that they got away with hurting her without expressing any remorse or repercussions. She wanted them to pay.

And then she met Santana, and the game changed.

Santana had been everything that she had been looking for along the lines of her next conquest; her greatest conquest. She was the perfect target: smart, popular, attractive; all the boys liked her. All the girls watched her, lusted after her attention. Quinn felt that if she could take down someone like her, she’d be practically invincible. It would be perfect payment for the years of pain she had to endure. She didn’t worry about Santana’s bad ass persona, because being Lucy had taught her that the bigger you try to be, the smaller you were on the inside. If Santana was that scathing, and that acidic, if she was that intimidating, it only meant that she was just the opposite inside, and she would fall that much harder once she sank her claws into her.

Only it never worked out that way. The closer she got to Santana, the more things got confusing. She started to forget if she was hanging out with Santana because she was trying to get information to use against her, or if she was hanging out with Santana because she wanted to be near her. Santana at school was a beast of another color, but Santana behind protective walls was a girl who loved her family, who would sit through endless Disney movie marathons to make Brittany happy, and would begrudgingly watch episodes of the shows that Quinn liked, complaining the whole time so she wouldn’t know how much she enjoyed doing it.

Behind protective walls Santana was the perfect gift giver because she paid far more attention to you than you thought until you received what she’d given and realized it was what you’d always wanted. Behind protective walls, Santana spent her Saturday afternoons with her abuela, and never missed going to church with her on Sundays because 15 years after the fact, her abuela still mourned for her abuelo, and Santana felt that no one should have to love alone. Santana behind closed doors cried, not the fake cry at school when coach Sylvester took away her tanning privileges, but the real, full, body wracking sobs that she had the first time she ever had sex. And then almost every time after that when it was with someone other than Brittany.

Quinn wasn’t stupid. She knew that Santana was playing her own game against her, knew that Santana was using her to rise to popularity, because this was small town Ohio, and Santana could never be at the top, so she took the next best spot: second best. She knew what their relationship was, a tentative bond, a numbers game, a long term play of strategy. Santana whispered secrets in Quinn’s ear, and Quinn gave Santana her secrets, all the while the two of them knowing that the other had the potential to, and probably would, use the information against the other. Every time Quinn confided something to Santana, she cringed inside knowing that Santana had the potential to use it against her, and likewise, Santana shared information with Quinn knowing full well that she might turn around and bite her with it. And on occasion when Quinn would let something slip, Santana would return the favor. Santana would prod at her, Quinn jumped at the bit.

It was the kind of relationship that couldn’t help being anything other than volatile. The two of them were a ticking time bomb, waiting for one of them to lower their guard enough for things to explode. They taught the school to fear them as much as they feared each other. Feared the amount of power they gave each other, safe only in the comfort of the thought that they couldn’t destroy the other without actually destroying themselves.

Even once Quinn felt that anger start to ease a little as things changed for her, (the birth of Beth being one of the bigger causes of that change, Glee being the other), Quinn still held this dubious relationship with Santana. Every time she betrayed her for the sake of remaining on top, she felt justified, remembering that it was her mission to get back at Santana, at all the Santanas out there: the popular kids, the ones that made her life a living hell, the one’s that filled her with so much anger because they had decided she was not worthy of knowing what it felt to love. She wouldn’t allow herself to feel guilt over the betrayals, especially the ones she made against Santana; it was all part of the game. At least it was up until the day that she realized that it wasn’t anger that she felt for Santana at all.

She knew, too, the exact day her feelings for her friend changed: the day she realized that Santana would _always_ choose Brittany over her.

 _Just thought you should know_.

Quinn wanted to scream. She wanted to punch something. She could almost feel her insides boiling; she wouldn’t have been surprised if her actual temperature had risen. She was sure that if Santana touched her in that moment she would have actually got burned. She was at a level of anger that she hadn’t felt since practically junior high, so she did what she’d always done with it, swallowed it, put up a mask, pretended everything was okay. “Almost ready, babe?” she heard Santana call out.

Quinn swallowed back her anger at the sound of her _wife’s_ voice. She carefully checked that her features were well hidden behind the mask she hadn’t used very often in the past couple of years. “Just about,” Quinn responded, pleased with herself at how normal her voice came across. “Hey, San,” she called as she walked into the living room where Santana was actually waiting for her by the door, instead of hanging on the couch with her shoes off in front of the TV.

She looked up, smiled. “Yep?”

“I’d like that,” Quinn said. “Opening a bank account together.”

It was nearly painful at how much Santana’s face lit up when she said those words. She should have anticipated it, but she was caught off guard when she felt Santana’s lips against her own. She wanted so badly to push away those lips that had so very recently been on Brittany’s, so she did the exact opposite. She pulled Santana closer to her, lengthening a kiss that Quinn knew was only supposed to be little more than a peck. She bit down on Santana’s bottom lip, until she opened for her, accepted her tongue into her mouth. She started tugging on cloth, trying to pull Santana towards her even as she tried to pull her shirt over her head.

Santana drew back. “Babe,” she protested, giving a small laugh. “This isn’t helping us get out of the door.”

“Who cares?” Quinn posed, pulling her back to her, her hand slipping beneath her shirt. She renewed her quest to remove it from Santana’s body. “Come on, stop, Quinn.” She felt her trying to pull away, so she strengthened her hold on her. She started to undo her own pants, uncaring that her partner was no longer kissing her back.

Santana forcibly pulled herself from Quinn’s grip. “Seriously, Q,” she said. “I said stop!” Santana ran a smoothing hand over her clothes, wiping her lip. “What the hell was that?”

Quinn looked back at her unapologetic. “Didn’t you say that I could have sex with you whenever I want?” It was meant to sound sarcastic, but it came out almost as a taunt. “Isn’t that what you said? You know, when in doubt, put out?”

Santana took several steps back away from Quinn. “That was a damn joke; it doesn’t mean you get to fucking maul me!”

“Why not? This is what we do, right Santana? We fuck. We’re fuck buddies who fucking got married to each other, and I was only trying to do what you expect! Got a problem, screw it away, right?”

Santana stared at Quinn, biting down on her lip, soft brown eyes scanning. “Where is this coming from?”

“Were you even going to tell me?” Quinn demanded, her voice rising as her anger took her anew.

“Tell you what?”

“That you kissed Brittany!”

Santana sighed heavily because of course Quinn knew. Damn Brittany. “I didn’t kiss Brittany! She kissed me!”

Quinn’s rolled her eyes, fighting to keep a grip on her tightly coiled anger. “Oh, wow, _babe_? You can’t think of anything more original than that? Really?”

“It’s the truth, Quinn!” She figured that things couldn’t get any worse by telling her the truth, so she decided to go with that. “Apparently Britt’s upset because we got married, and she wasn’t ready to let me go. She kissed me before I had any chance to stop her, and pulled away before I could end it. I’m not still interested in Brittany. I’m not married to Brittany.”

Quinn felt herself unraveling. She squeezed her fist open and closed, trying to keep herself together. “Why don’t we stop pretending, San? I mean we promised each other that, right? That we would always be honest with each other? Let’s not confuse things. Let’s not pretend this is something that it’s not. We got married because of a bet. Not because we’re in love, not because we like each other, but because we’re good at fucking, and because you wanted to win. I can handle that, Santana; I can’t handle this back and forth where one moment you’re sweet and caring, and the next-,”

Quinn’s words evaporated in the air. Santana’s eyes were still trained on her. “ _I didn’t kiss her_!” Santana hissed. “But even if I did, so what! You kissed, actually kissed Rachel Berry, with tongue, and yeah, it pissed me the fuck off even though I know you did it just because I was dancing with some girl, but I didn’t say that what we have isn’t legitimate just because of it! Brittany is my best friend, my best friend, Quinn, I’ve known her since 3rd grade, yet I’m here, with you instead of chasing after her, so what does that tell you? The only reason I didn’t tell you was because I wanted to get through the reception. I swear I would have told you immediately after. ”

“Well that’s awfully convenient for you, isn’t it?” Quinn questioned, her voice dropping, dripping with sarcasm.

“Babe,”

“ _Stop_ calling me that!”

“I’m telling you the God’s honest truth. What reason would I have to lie about it? If I kissed her, I would tell you I freaking kissed her. You know that as well as I do. And God, how could you even think that I’d want to after what she did on her show? Quinn even if I was just playing at _this_ , you’re still one of the best friends I’ve ever had. I wouldn’t just fucking laugh it off with Brittany. Give me some damn credit!”

It sounded so logical to Quinn that she hated Santana for it, because the logic center of her brain was warring with the part or her body that had gone crashing to the floor the moment she saw that text of Brittany and Santana with their lips pressed together.

“Please look at me, Quinn,” Santana begged. Quinn raised her eyes to Santana but the two of them didn’t say anything to each other. A minute passed. And then another. It was so quiet in the apartment that Quinn almost felt like they could hear each other’s heartbeat. “You have to believe that I didn’t know what Brittany was up to. I didn’t encourage her, I didn’t reciprocate, and I don’t want to be with her.”

Quinn blinked. More time passed. Quinn actually was shaking slightly from the force of the emotions that were coursing through her, feeling sick. “I believe you,” she finally said. Santana breathed out a gust of air. She didn’t move forward to kiss her, and she didn’t know what to say, so she just stood there.

Eventually, they left the apartment with no destination in mind. She imagined all the things that they would have been doing, if she hadn’t gotten that text. General chores. Things for the event. At that moment, though, Quinn honestly didn’t want to do anything that had anything to do with the reception; she didn’t really want to think. Santana seemed to be feeling along the same lines because in the car all she did was turn on the radio and started to sing quietly under her breath. At one point Quinn even joined in, and Santana’s hand itched on the console, but she didn’t reach across the distance to attempt to touch her wife.

They made a trip to Cambridge Savings and Loan and opened an account with both of their names on it but, having not thought about the idea in advance, the only money they had to put into it at that very moment was a dollar. Santana thought it was perfectly fitting. Quinn worried that she lost something, but she wasn’t entirely sure of what.

By the time that they returned to the apartment, Santana felt mentally drained. It was exhausting trying to be cautious of everything that left your mouth, scared to shatter a peace that was delicate at best. She may have wanted to curl up in a ball, or scream very loudly, for as long as she could, but she felt the day was successful in that they had had a major fight, but the two of them were still there. To her that said something. She only hoped that this meant that they were do-in for a couple of days of relative peace before things got rocky again.

When they returned to the apartment a few hours later, Quinn said that she was exhausted and wanted to take a nap. “Care if I join you?” Santana questioned after a moment’s hesitation. Slight recognition flashed in Quinn’s eyes, before she replied, “You can if you want.”

So they went to bed, and after an initial moment of uncomfortableness, Quinn relaxed into Santana’s embrace, and Santana tightened her arms around her.

Santana never made it to the point where she was able to fall asleep. She just lay there, sifting through all of the emotions that the day had brought to the foreground. Every so often her hands would tighten; a subconscious tick just to make sure that Quinn was still in her arms. Her mind wandered to Puck and Shelly, and wondered if those newlyweds had to deal with half as many issues as Santana and Quinn. She doubted it. She was sure that only she and Quinn had this type of relationship.

When she couldn’t stand being in bed any longer, she got up and figured that she could at least get some work done. She curled up on the couch with her laptop, opening up a new word file, and conjured up a brainstorming activity from her undergrad days, where she just started typing, and navigated through where the words took her. Quinn woke up calling Santana’s name, but was up and out of bed before Santana could actually get off the couch to respond.

“Did you need something?” Santana questioned, half standing.

Quinn shook her head. “You were just, gone. What’re you doing?”

Santana settled back down on the couch. “Work. Did you have a good nap?”

Quinn quirked a shoulder. She gave a look at Santana sitting on the couch, and decided to join her after pulling a book down off of Santana’s bookshelf. She flipped the book over in her hands.

“Have you seen my Nook, Santana?” Quinn questioned. “I can’t seem to find it anywhere?”

Santana took a few seconds to look away from the computer screen, but quickly looked back. “No.” Quinn got the impression that she was lying, but it didn’t seem worth it to call her on it. She curled up on the opposite end of the couch from Santana, and opened her book.

They existed like this in peace, essentially ignoring each other, and everything was fine until Santana shifted from typing on her computer to addressing the last of the invitations for the reception. Santana was aware how every now and then Quinn’s eyes darted up to watch Santana write out the names on the envelopes in her neat cursive script, fascinated by it. Santana’s precision had come from her parents’ insistence that she have great penmanship. Even though the teacher’s hardly demanded that anything be written in cursive anymore, as a kid she had had to come home from school and work on her handwriting. She had special left-handed pens and pencils, and even, as a younger child, had a special pad made to show exactly how she was supposed to position her paper so that she didn’t smudge her letters when she wrote them. The end result was that her mother _always_ had someone to neatly address envelopes for her whenever she sent out invitations, Santana grew up to flat out prefer to write in cursive whenever she had the opportunity, and Puck almost always beat her at Mario Kart because he was busy practicing _that_ while she had to work on her handwriting.

She pulled the next card out of the box, checked the name on the list, and carefully started to write out the name. Santana wasn’t aware that Quinn was paying that much attention to what she was doing until she heard Quinn’s voice say, “You don’t have to make out an invitation for him.”

Santana hadn’t really been paying attention to the name she’d written so at first she didn’t even know what Quinn was talking about. “What?”

“You don’t have to make out an invitation,” Quinn repeated.

Santana’s hand still worked, not quite picking up on what Quinn said, still in work mode. “I thought that was the ‘cultured’ thing to do, or whatever it was you said. Half of the people we’re inviting already know the date, time, and venue, but we’re still sending notice out to them.”

“I didn’t intend to extend an invitation to him,” Quinn said more crisply.

It was more the tone than anything else that she picked up on. Santana looked down at the cardstock in front of her, finally registering the name written on it. “Your dad doesn’t want to come?”

“He’s not invited,” Quinn said sharply, her tone clearly indicating that it was a matter she really didn’t feel like discussing. 

Santana was a bit confused though. “Why?”

“I don’t want him there. This is supposed to be a celebration: a celebration of us, and I don’t want his hypocritical, backwards, judgmental self to be there to ruin the day for us.”

With the way things were going, Santana was fairly sure that the two of them had a better chance of ruining things than Russell would, but she kept the thought to herself. “He was at the wedding though,” Santana reminded her. “That didn’t seem like, I mean he didn’t say anything about it then; we even went to eat with him afterwards. Did he say something to you about it afterwards?”

“No, he didn’t, but the wedding should be good enough for him. I don’t want to bring him any more into our marriage than he already is. I don’t want him to be there.”

The little piece of stationary kept drawing her eyes. “I thought that part of the reason we’re having the reception in the first place was so we could share this with our friends and _family,_ remember? Your idea, Quinn. He’s your family. _My_ parents are coming, Judy’s going to be there, why wouldn’t you have him there, too?”

“Because I don’t want him there!” Frustrated, Quinn’s voice had started to rise in volume. I don’t want anything to do with him. How hard is that to understand?”

For Santana, it was very hard to understand. “But he _wants_ to be there, Quinn,” she protested. She had talked to Russell personally; he had asked her _twice_ when the reception was going to be.

“He kicked me out of the house when I was 16 years old, Santana!”

Santana was there. She knew that fact. “Yes, baby, when you were _16_ yearsold. You’re not 16 anymore. That happened over 13 years ago. He’s apologized and he wants to be in our lives. Be the better woman and let him.”

Quinn felt her losing her grip on her anger. “Carol Hudson, Leah Puckerman, and Justine Jones were more of parents to me than that fucking bastard ever was so don’t you dare try to make me out to sound as if I’m merely being petty. I was pregnant and had nowhere to go. He was supposed to protect me, not cast me aside like yesterday’s garbage, because I turned out to not be his perfect little girl!”

Santana nodded, but her words ran counter to being in agreement with her. “I understand that, Quinn, but he’s still your father. Finn’s mom, Puck’s mom, and Mercedes mom, they opened up their homes to you for a few months; Russell was your father for 15 years before that, and he might not have been winning dad of the year, but he did provide for you all that time. He also paid your college tuition, which neither of those three would have done because as much as they love you, you weren’t actually their child. He may be a bastard, but he still cared enough to foot the bill for your Ivy League education.”

“Cared? All he cared about was the name! Not about me!”

“He cares about you, too, Quinn! As hard as that may be for you to grasp, he cares! He’s trying to make things up to you for the mistakes he made. I’m not saying that he’s not a god awful man baby, I’m saying that he’s trying to make things better. I know he’s hurt you, I know what he’s put you through, but he’s trying to make amends for that, and at the end of the day, he’s still your family. _Don’t_ write him off.”

“How easy for you to say, Ms. High and Mighty,” she sneered, her voice growing acidic. “It must be nice view from the throne you’re sitting on, huh? Easy for you to cast judgment on my life when I don’t see _you_ inviting your _abuela_ to the reception!”

It was at this point that Santana realized just how angry Quinn actually was over the invitation. Quinn may as well have just slapped her. “Okay, me and my abuela, and you and your dad, that’s not the same thing at all! I’m not inviting abuela because she’s not going to come. Russell _wants_ to be there. Your Good Ole Boy, conservative minded, bible-thumping, overly judgmental, far right leaning father _wants_ to come to the reception of his bisexual daughter’s marriage to her multiracial Latina partner, to show his support. Do you know how incredible that is?!”

“Isn’t it nice how much you stand up for him, but not your supposed ‘wife’? I don’t care what _he_ wants. I don’t want him to be there. He’s my father, not yours, Santana, and I do get a say in who I want to be at my damn reception. How hard is it for you to understand that I don’t want him to be there?”

Santana honestly couldn’t understand Quinn at the moment. Maybe it was because her parents were nothing like the Fabrays. Maybe it was because she grew up in a world where, like them or lump them, family was family, and you were stuck with them until they died off. Maybe it was because Quinn’s grandparents lived in nursing homes, and Quinn’s aunts and uncles lived in other states, and because Quinn rarely talked to her sister, whereas Santana couldn’t get rid of her family. When she’d lived at home, her grandmother lived with her. Her mom’s sister lived around the block and her mom’s brother on the other side of town. Her father’s siblings didn’t live quite so close, but she saw them on the major holidays, and at the family gatherings every summer.

She didn’t understand Quinn at the moment, but she was tired, she was so tired of arguing with Quinn, and if Quinn didn’t want Russell to come, even though Santana thought he should still be there, she wasn’t going to push it. He had certainly never done her any favors. Santana dropped her pen on the table. “Okay.” She got up to get a beer. Quinn followed her into the kitchen. “I don’t want him there,” Quinn repeated.

Santana snapped the top off of the beer, the little piece of metal falling somewhere on the floor between them. “I said fine,” she said again. She meant it to end the conversation, to calm things, but it had the exact opposite effect.

“You think I’m wrong?”

“I said fine,” Santana said, more slowly this time. “You’re right, Quinn. He’s your family, not mine. You don’t want him there, fine, he won’t be there.”

Quinn clutched at air, her fists balling. “You know you’re starting to really piss me off!”

Santana let her free hand run over her face, trying not to let herself rise to the bait. It wasn’t working too well, though, because she was seriously annoyed with her wife. “How am I pissing you off? I said fine, I walked away, you’re the one who is insisting on carrying on an argument that’s over. Russell’s not invited. End of story.”

“You’re pissing me off because you so clearly think that you’re right about this; you’re not even trying to see things from my viewpoint!”

“Quinn,” Santana said sharply. “I’m dropping it. You should do the same thing, too.”

“Do you have any idea how much he hurt me, how much damage he did?” Santana nodded; she’d pretty much had a front row seat to all that. “But no, he probably told you some sob story, so now you feel bad for him, and I’m the one who’s wrong because I don’t want someone toxic at a day that’s supposed to be special to me!”

“I’m _not_ on Russell’s side! You really want to know what I was thinking? I was thinking that hey: that’s one more person who wants to celebrate us. I was thinking that whenever kids come into play, they’ll have all four grandparents alive, and wouldn’t it be nice if they could know who their mommies’ parents are? I was thinking that one day Russell is going to die, and it would be nice if the two of you could fix things between you while the option is still there, so you don’t spend the rest of your life regretting that you were never able to have a relationship with your father. _That’s_ what I was thinking, but it is up to you. You don’t want him there, so I won’t send out an invitation to him.”

“But you still think you’re right?”

“At the moment, the only thing I’m thinking is that this has been the fucking week from hell, and I just, I just want to be able to enjoy being with my wife. We’re supposed to be in the fucking honeymoon stage of our marriage, and it’s been like I’ve been going to battle with you every other day, recently. All this going back and forth, it was fun in high school, it fucking passed the time, but we’re not in high school anymore, and I don’t want to fight over every trivial thing.”

“Trivial?” Quinn threw her hands up in the air. “Fine,” Quinn hissed. Quinn turned. She started to leave. She spun back around. “You know something: fuck you, Santana, and fuck me, too, for possibly thinking that you would be on my side about this. About anything! You don’t know shit about this situation, and you don’t give a shit about me! I keep telling myself that maybe we could actually have something, I keep getting my hopes up, but it’s apparent that we can’t because you just don’t care. You think I’m still the same girl from high school? Well, you’re still the same self-centered bitch that doesn’t care about anyone other than yourself, so fuck you Santana. Fuck you!”

Quinn grabbed for her purse, and stormed out of the apartment, slamming the door loudly in her wake. The sound seemed to echo for a long time after she was gone, and Santana just stood, leaning against the counter, staring in the direction of the front door. When Santana went back into the living room, beer forgotten but still in her hand, the little card with Russell Fabray’s name on it was sitting on the coffee table, mocking. Santana found her cell phone, pressing call on one of the first numbers on her contact list.

She got the answering machine. She always did. She listened longingly to the female voice on the call service waiting for the prompt that meant it was her turn to talk. “Hola, abuela. Soy yo, Santancita. Quinn and I missed you at our wedding, but I understand that you may have just been too busy to come. I wore your dress. Mami says I looked just like you when you were my age. I wish you could have seen. I know I’ve called before, but I just wanted to make sure that you knew that Quinn and my’s wedding reception is August 8th, and I hoped that you would come. I really, really hope that you’ll come. I’ll be sure to leave a space for you, just in case you change your mind. Te quiero abuela. Te echo de menos.”

Santana paused, because she felt like she should say something else, but didn’t know what, so she just repeated the sentiment of her last sentence, wiping at her eye as she said the words, because an eyelash or something had started to irritate it. “Te extraño mucho.”

Santana ended the call, realizing how funny the whole thing was. She was once again inviting the woman that wouldn’t talk to her, to a reception that was no longer going to happen because her wife had just told her to fuck off, and had just walked out the door. Her abuela was never going to talk to her again, much less come to a party celebrating her marriage, but what did it matter anyway, because her wife had just left her.

It was possibly the funniest thing that Santana had ever heard, and her body couldn’t stop shaking from the force of her laughs. It wasn’t until she noticed Russell’s name becoming an inky, black stain against the beautiful crème cardstock that they had chosen for their invitations that Santana realized that she wasn’t actually laughing at all.


	10. Taking you Home

Quinn jumped at the sound of the door slamming, feeling almost as if she was waking up from herself. She stood there, her back barely a foot away from the door, trying to get her breathing under control. She finally gave in to what the burn in her eyes and tickle of her throat were warning her of, and found herself crying. Crying in the middle of the apartment building hallway, where anyone could come by and see her, and see how freaking pathetic it was because she was crying over Santana, a pretend wife who would never be the real thing.

She startled when she heard a sound elsewhere in the hallway, irrationally thinking that it was somehow Santana, even though that would have required her to have an ability to move through solid walls, and Santana wasn’t Kitty Pryde. No, Santana was in the unit behind her, and the thing that she was supposed to do, the thing that she knew she was supposed to do, was turn back around, open the door, sit down silently on the couch, or take up residence in the bathroom, or bedroom, or alcove Santana pretended was an office, do something other than what she was currently doing now, and that was walking away.

Have you ever done something that you knew you were going to regret even as you did it, but you did it anyway because you just couldn’t _not_ do it? That’s how Quinn felt as, too impatient to wait for the elevator, she decided to take the stairs down, almost stumbling in her blind haste to put as much distance from her own words as much as Santana. She was moving unthinkingly, until she was out of the building, and standing on the sidewalk, looking around for a car that wasn’t there, not remembering until that exact moment that Santana had picked her up from work on Friday so her car was still sitting uselessly in front of her own apartment building, and not where she needed it to be right now. At least she had remembered her purse.

Quinn walked until she found the closest bus stop, and sat on the bench to wait for the next bus. Quinn liked public transportation. In Lima, of course she wouldn’t have been caught dead riding the bus, but in the city, a city who had possibly the worst drivers in the entire country, Quinn definitely liked public transportation. When she first moved to Boston, she’d worn sweats on the bus, carried a change of clothes and her purse in her book bag, and changed at work out of fear of getting mugged or harassed. That had lasted two months, and then she got over herself. If she was going to live in this city, she was going to be in the city, and she wasn’t going to allow herself to be afraid of it.

Today, though, it seemed like everyone in Boston knew about her transactions, and wanted to stay clear of her, because there was no one else to wait with her, to distract her with idle conversations or insane ramblings by old military vets that had gone mad over being forgotten by the country that they had once served. There was no one but her, so while she waited all she heard was their fight playing in her ears. Her words. She wasn’t wrong, she didn’t feel as if she was wrong about Russell. She wasn’t. There weren’t words enough to describe how lonely it was, what it felt like to grow up feeling uncared for, and unloved, and unworthy. 

It was her right not to want that same negativity back in her life. Yeah, she had invited him to the wedding, but she didn’t expect for him to be in her life any more than that. The wedding should have been enough. She didn’t want some sort of reconciliation with this man; she wanted it to all go away and look forward to her future, not be stuck in her past. So, no, she wasn’t wrong, but she shouldn’t have called Santana a bitch either, not like that anyway. She shouldn’t have told her to fuck off. God, things were so much easier when you could just solve your problems with the expedient of a hand slap. You could get away with such things in high school, college too, but things like that in the adult world fell into the category of domestic altercations and assault, and Quinn wasn’t _that_.

No, just the same vicious, angry, unsatisfied girl from high school that still believed that vengeance was hers because she had been picked on. That being bullied gave her the right to be a bully. She had blamed Santana for something that wasn’t even her fault, and then continued to be angry at her because she had found love with someone who wasn’t her. As much as she tried to rid herself of the guilt of her childhood self, she never stopped regretting the things that she had done to Santana; never stopped wondering what they could have had if things had been entirely different between the two of them.

And for that, too, she blamed Russell. How could Santana _not_ understand that? The answer came to her unwillingly in the form of a memory from senior year. All of the Glee kids were sitting around in a circle while the Irish kid, Patrick? (she could never remember his name) tasted peanut butter for the first time, and then they went around the circle saying what they were most looking forward to in life. Quinn’s want: graduating at the top of her class from Yale. Santana’s: being loved by her family, specifically her grandmother. Quinn’s cultural upbringing made people expendable; Santana’s didn’t.

But it wasn’t her fault that Santana and her grandmother were at odds with each other, or that her grandmother rejected her. Her grandmother rejecting her had absolutely nothing to do with Russell coming to the wedding. It Santana’s abuela had wanted to come, and Santana didn’t want her there, Quinn wouldn’t have attempted to make her invite her abuela. Russell was _her_ father, and _she_ got to decide whether or not he was allowed to be there. It was that simple.

She wanted to go upstairs and tell Santana it was that simple, and she wanted Santana to understand that. She wanted Santana to care about her enough to understand how vulnerable being around Russell made her. But of course Santana didn’t understand her, because Santana didn’t care enough to want to understand her; Santana just wanted to have sex. She didn’t kid herself; they had gotten married for no reason, whatsoever, other than that bet. It had been impulsive, stupid, kind of childish, and it was done. They were done.

It took two hours for her to get back to her apartment. The bus had taken another 30 minutes to come, and then she’d just kind of ridden it to the end of the line before she transferred to the bus that would take her to her-she was starting to realize that she couldn’t really say _her_ -apartment. When she opened the door, the first thing she came across were Santana’s shoes two feet away from it. On the coffee table, an InStyle Magazine was open to the last page she’d read. In the kitchen, Santana’s handwriting was on the fridge in a reminder of what should be bought on their next shopping trip, _CHEEZ ITS_ , bold and triple underlined because Quinn had talked her into getting the Trader Joe brand cheese crackers last trip, and apparently those weren’t good enough.

In the bathroom, Santana had her product mixed in with Quinn’s, her hair brush in the drawer beside hers, her toothbrush and toothpaste on the counter. None of it was purchased, all just moved over to Quinn’s place, and duplicates filled their spots at Santana’s. The fact that Quinn would have to rescue her own things from Santana’s place, now, and would have to pack up Santana’s, made her glad that they had never discussed actually moving in with each other.

Quinn quickly decided that she couldn’t stand to be in her apartment any longer, so she got dressed, decided to put on a sensible pair of heels even though she’d knew that her back would be whining by the end of the night, and decided to go out on the town. Destination: Jamaica Plain.

“Why the fuck do bars always seem to play the most depressing music known to man?”

It was meant to be rhetorical, but it was said out loud, and the bartender considered her words. “Because usually the people that come into bars are busy drinking away their troubles? What’ll it be for you tonight, angel?”

Quinn got comfortable on the stool. “Give me a shot of Rum, and I’ll take anything that’s not pink, fruity, or tequila, to drink.” Scotch was generally Quinn’s drink of choice (she took after her dad in that regard), but at the moment she didn’t want anything to remind her of her father, or Santana. At the mere thought of her name she had to resist the urge to check her cell phone to see if she called (she hadn’t) or maybe sent a text (she didn’t).

The woman behind the bar smiled at her, “I’ll fix you up a black widow,” she decided as she sat the shot in front of her. “Since you’re drinking rum.”

Quinn quickly downed it. “Sounds deadly.”

The bartender winked at her. “Isn’t that the point?” Quinn’s eyes moved in quiet appraisal of the woman. She was tall, like taller than that blonde bitch that was lip locking with her wife, and skinny. She had strong, thick arms, and she was sure that she was packing a six-pack beneath her blouse. Quinn felt herself strangely aroused by her. “So what are you drinking away, tonight?”

Quinn pointed a finger down at the bar. “Can’t a girl just have a drink without there being something wrong?”

“Sure, she can,” the woman agreed, “but if they did, I would have been put out of business a long time ago.” She gave Quinn an appraising look. “You look like you’re new to the rodeo. First time in a gay bar, sweetie?”

Quinn quickly shook her head, leaning in closer. “This isn’t even my first time in a gay bar _tonight_ ,” she whispered, as if it were both a secret, and a great accomplishment. Sure, prior to the bar/club that she’d been at before coming here, she had never been to a gay club, but this chick didn’t need to know that. And what was with the assumption anyway? Did Quinn look too straight to go to a gay bar? Santana was one of the most not-lesbian looking girls that she knew, and she couldn’t even _drive_ straight.

“No?” Her drink was placed in front of her. “Let me guess; you just come from the Machine?”

Quinn eagerly pulled her drink closer to her, marveling at the way the two colors sat on top of each other for a second before taking a tentative drink. Rum. She ordered another shot.

Quinn nodded. “How’d you know?”

“It’s Second Saturday with Dyke Night so all the partying les’ come out in full effect.”

“ _That’s_ why there were so many people,” Quinn said with a nod. “Too many people there for me.” She waved a hand around. “This, this is nice.”

The bartender went to check on the other people sitting at the bar. Quinn finished half of her drink before she came back. “I’m Kelsi,” the woman offered.

“Luce,” Quinn replied.

Kelsi noticing that Quinn’s shot glass was empty, offered to get her another one. Almost immediately after Quinn nodded, a fresh shot was sat in front of her. “So what are you? Bi, bi-curious, happily married but looking for a unicorn to complete your triad?”

Quinn frowned because unicorns made her think of Brittany, and thinking of Brittany made her want to punch things. And drink. “What’s a unicorn?” she demanded.

“A unicorn is a mythical creature; it doesn’t exist. It’s the perfect woman, one who would be happy being the third in a poly relationship, who cooks, and cleans, and takes care of the kids, and pretty much makes herself available for sex whenever you want without making any demands for herself.”

The description alone made Quinn want to puke. “Um…no.”

Kelsi held up a finger, before working down the bar to a woman who was very desperately trying to get her attention.

“I’m not new,” Quinn practically screamed at Kelsi when she got back. It wasn’t intentional, it’s just that she had been practicing her talking while she was away, and she was eager to speak her mind. “To the rodeo,” she clarified. “I’ve been sleeping with women for more than nine years.” So what if it was the same woman, it counted. She had _experience_

“Hunh,” Kelsi said, clearly surprised. “Sorry. You just kind of scream closeted.”

Quinn proudly knocked back her drink, in an attempt to forget the coming out cupcakes Santana had made for her. “Well, I’m not. I’m even married to a woman. Well, I married a woman…was once married to a woman.”

Quinn decided right there that she had done enough talking, so she slid off of her barstool and went walked to the back of the place to join the women dancing on the floor. Quinn hadn’t done much dancing over the recent years. The last time that counted was the week she went back to Lima to say good-bye to Glee Club; and since then there was that very rare trip to a club or bar during college, and then every time afterwards was at office parties. She didn’t know what was ‘current’, didn’t even know if ‘current’ was a word people even still used. She didn’t know any of the latest dance steps. But she didn’t care. She had been drinking dance moves for the past half hour, and she was ready to let them out. She moved to the center of the floor, and gave it her best.

Despite her less than stellar moves, she had partners. Women, attractive women, women who she had never met, and she hadn’t spent her whole high school experience and most of her life knowing, came up to her, and wanted to dance. Quinn considered herself to be bi solely because of Santana; other than that brain malfunction in the name of Rachel Berry, she had never really thought of any other female attractive in that way. Sure she knew when a woman looked good, but she had never really looked at other women and thought that they would look good in connection to her. But there was one that was all dark hair, and sexy lips, that she couldn’t seem to take her eyes off of, and she was pleasantly pleased that the same held true for her. 

Quinn came off of the floor when she got tired, surprised that her seat at the bar was still unoccupied. She sat down gratefully in it. Kelsi started mixing her drink before her bum had hit wood.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

Quinn almost jumped at the feel of warm breath at her ear. She was surprised (and a little aroused) by the boldness of it. She turned and was unsurprised-but still thrilled- to see it was the girl from the dance floor. The one with the dark hair.

“Depends,” Quinn replied, “what’s it going to cost me?”

The woman bit her lip, as if she were thinking about it. “How ‘bout a smile, for starters?”

It was automatic, Quinn found herself smiling. Two seconds later, another Black Widow was placed in front of her. The woman pointed at Quinn’s drink, “Be sure to add that to my tap, Kels.”

Kelsi nodded, and walked off. Dark hair sat/leaned in the seat beside Quinn, her arm resting on the back of Quinn’s barstool. “So what brings you out here tonight? I don’t think I’ve seen you before.”

Quinn scoffed but it was more flirtatious then derisive. “That’s not very original.”

“It’s JP, I don’t have to be: it’s a small dyke world. We all know each other, and I know I’ve never seen you around.”

Quinn’s response was interrupted by her phone buzzing against the counter. It was a text. From Santana. Her heart raced as she took in the very short message. _Are you coming home?_ She was momentarily happy by the text because the words alone suggested that Santana was thinking about her, and that she would be welcomed back when she got there. That happiness quickly soured when she realized what would await her when she got back to the apartment; the reason she’d left in the first place. That going back to Santana’s would only serve as a bitter reminder of how much this wasn’t working. Maybe the real reason that all they had done so far in their marriage was fight with each other was because they weren’t _supposed_ to be together, not even for a short amount of time. Maybe they just weren’t meant to be anything other than what they had been to each other. After all they had been having sex for nine years, nine years! For one brief moment maybe Quinn had actually believed what Santana suggested: that there was a reason that they kept coming back to each other, but maybe that was just great sex.

“Who’s that?” the woman questioned, an eyebrow quirked. She leaned forward a little.

“My wife.”

Quinn was surprised to see the smile deepen on the woman’s face. Her arm moved slightly closer to Quinn’s back. “What’s she want?”

Quinn looked away from the phone and to the woman. “To know if I’m coming home.”

Boldly, the woman’s other hand lightly stroked at the top of the hand Quinn had around her glass. “Are you?”

Quinn found herself smiling back at the smile the woman gave her. “Not right now,” she answered.

Their eye contact was broken by a sudden shout of “Jenna!” and the woman, apparently Jenna, turned to see who it was. Apparently it was another lover, or a friend, based on her reaction. Jenna on her feet apparently was sexier than Jenna on the bar stool. She was wearing an ensemble that was slightly more butch than Quinn preferred (as much as Quinn and Santana joked about either of them being butch, they were both very femme), but Quinn quickly decided that that was okay. After all, she let Santana top her every now and then.

Jenna turned back to her, laying a possessive arm back on Quinn’s chair. It wasn’t so loud that she needed to lean in quite so close, either, but Quinn didn’t mind. She’d never realized before just how easy it was to pick up a girl.

“You want to dance?” she was asked. She meant to say yes, but her back was killing her, and she didn’t want to have to get back up on her feet so soon, so she said no regretfully, but did it in a way that suggested that the seat beside her would remain open. Jenna gave her a wink. “It better be,” she teased. Before Jenna was pulled to the back, she caught Kelsi’s attention. “Make sure she gets whatever she wants. I’ll be back in a few, babe, don’t go anywhere.”

Kelsi came and stood in front of Quinn. “‘Nother drink?” she questioned.

Quinn nodded. A minute later she had a luminescent green drink in front of her. She had made good headway on it when Kelsi came back to check on her. “Looks like you made a friend.”

Quinn grin stupidly. “I might have.”

Kelsi made a show at wiping down the bar counter. “You don’t want to go home with her,” Kelsi said casually. Quinn was pretty sure she did. She was just beautiful; her dark hair even had those little tight curls that Santana’s hair had when she didn’t blow it out.

Kelsi wiped an experienced hand over the bar. “Trust me on that. She pretty much sleeps around with anything that walks through the bar wearing a skirt, and she’s not too clean with it, if you catch me.”

If she hadn’t mentioned the girls’ hygiene, Quinn probably wouldn’t have backed off, but the idea alone was enough to have her taking a long gulp of her drink to try to wash the imagined taste out of her mouth.

“But I need to go home with someone,” Quinn said, and it could have been to herself, or to Kelsi, or to the little ant that was making its way across the bar counter. “That’s why I’m here!” Quinn wanted to feel wanted and desired and so far Jenna had done that. She was sure that if she were to strut back onto the dance floor, she’d have Jenna’s attentions in two seconds flat. Quinn didn’t really care about tomorrow, all she cared about was tonight.

“What’s your wife going to think about that?” Kelsi, the buzzkill, questioned.

“If she actually cared about me, she might care, but she doesn’t. It’s not even a real marriage. I mean, yeah, we really got married, but it’s just for show, you know?” Quinn frowned, filling her eyes well. Damn it, she wasn’t the crying drunk. That was Santana. She was the angry drunk. She actually tried to summon angry drunk Quinn, as if it were a hulk personality. Anything to keep herself from crying. “You don’t want to hear this,” Quinn realized. No one wanted to hear about her problems. She was alone.

Kelsi flashed her a smile that was filled with teeth that weren’t perfectly straight, and weren’t perfect, but somehow formed a near perfect smile. “I don’t want to hear half the story’s that people tell me, but I’m a bartender; it’s like being a therapist. And sides, the more you talk, the more you drink, the more you drink, the more money the bar makes, the more I work. See how that goes? Can I give you a refill?”

Quinn nodded. Still smiling, Kelsi placed another drink in front of her. Quinn must have had a lot of alcohol in her system because she couldn’t taste any in this new drink. “So talk.”

“I yelled at her,” Quinn blurted. Kelsi was very good at talking with drunks because she didn’t even bat an eyelash. “I mean, I was right, about what I was saying. See she wanted to invite my dad to the reception, and I don’t want him to be there because he really hurt me when I was a kid, you know?”

“Because you were gay?”

“Bi, and no,” Quinn quickly dismissed. “I didn’t think he knew about that, well it turns out he did know about that, but that’s not why he was mean; he’s mean because he’s a bastard and I wasn’t good enough for him.”

“Was he abusive?” she questioned gently.

Quinn almost recoiled from the word alone. It was such an ugly word. “He never hit me or anything, never like verbally attacked me, outright, no, but he did other things. You know suggest that I not eat a second roll, because I didn’t want to get any more rolls. I was a fat kid. And he’d always be on me, about my weight, about my posture, about who I was friends with, how I came across. It was all about appearance, all about the family name. When I was in high school I got pregnant, and he kicked me out of the house. I could have been living out on the streets for all he cared, and now the wife wants him to just be part of the family like none of that happened, just because he said he wants to be there.”

“ _He_ said he wants to be there?”

Quinn nodded. “As if that changes anything!”

Kelsi had to tend to a couple of rowdy college kids, a couple, and a few solos like herself. It was a half an hour before she made it back down to where Quinn was to refill her drink. The new drink tasted even less alcoholic than the one before it, and she wasn’t feeling her buzz quite as much. Jenna came and checked on her in that time frame, being flirty, but Quinn decided that she couldn’t take Kelsi’s warning about her.

“It doesn’t change anything,” Kelsi walked up saying. Quinn was surprised that she’d remembered the conversation, much less was able to pick it up from where they last left it. “She should understand that just because he’s coming around, doesn’t mean that it gets rid of everything that happened.”

“Exactly!” Quinn said eagerly, because finally someone got it. Her wife couldn’t, but this stranger in the bar could. That spoke volumes. “He really messed me up; like what kind of parent does that?”

“Not a good one,” Kelsi said.

Quinn nodded in agreement. “I would be such a better person, if it wasn’t for him.” This was said mostly to herself. “He ruined me.”

“You don’t look very ruined,” Kelsi said kindly.

“I got screwed up so bad, I can’t even have a real relationship.” Her marriage had lasted all of a few weeks, and she was just going to do just as bad the next time around. She wasn’t the type of girl to get the Happily Ever After. She was like the packages that were underneath storefront Christmas displays: beautifully packaged, but never taken home.

“Hey, so I was thinking,” Kelsi said the next time she came around. “Like your wife was totally wrong for not understanding about your dad, totally. I was just thinking, though, like you say that your dad messed you up as an adult because of how things were when you were a kid right?” Quinn nodded, that was right. “Well, I was thinking, what if _his_ parents messed him up as a kid, too, you know? And he’s just been trying to repair himself, too?” Kelsi kind of shrugged. “Just a thought.”

The next time Jenna came back, she insisted on dancing, and it’d been awhile so Quinn got up, and pretended that her feet weren’t achy and her back wasn’t sore. She was actually starting to feel her age a little: she wasn’t so young anymore. “So what would your wife say if I said that I’d really like to take you home?”

In the dim lighting it was hard to really see things clearly. She couldn’t even tell what color eyes the girl had, but what did that matter. “Must be a good thing that I don’t intend to tell her,” Quinn shot back.

Jenna’s hand went around her waist. “I’m going to make you feel so good, you won’t even remember her name,” Jenna promised. “Just let me say good-bye to my friends and we can get out of her, okay?”

It was the first moment that Quinn had a moment of pause, but then she shrugged it all off. “More like I’m going to make you feel so good that you’re going to forget _your_ name?”

Quinn could tell that she liked her cheeky response. While Jenna went off in search of her friends, Quinn made her way back to the bar to settle her tab.

“Hey, I’m going to go, now. Thanks for listening.”

Kelsi gave a nod she probably gave a hundred times a night. “Any time, Luce. You leaving with Jenna?”

Quinn shrugged a shoulder. “Why not?” she chuckled. “That’s why I came. Find someone to take home.”

Kelsi nodded, just as casual as Quinn. “What about me?” Quinn was…not expecting that. “We close at 1:00, it takes me about half an hour to close the bar. Shouldn’t be too long.” She reevaluated the woman. She looked absolutely nothing like her wife. Jenna was the perfect choice for a one-nighter of the kind that she used to have with Santana, but Kelsi had kinder eyes. Kelsi wouldn’t kick her out of the bed after they had sex. Not that that was a good thing.

A hand slipped around her waist as she was trying to decide. “Hey, babe, ready to get out of here?”

Quinn gave a quick glance at Kelsi, and wondered if she was about to regret this. She pulled out of Jenna’s grasp. “Hey, sorry, something just came up, I can’t. But if you want to, next time…”

Jenna swore. “Are you kidding? I shelved out more than $50 bucks in drinks for you…married bitches!” She stormed off.

Kelsi sat a drink in front of her. “Don’t feel bad about it, she’ll find someone on her way to her cab. I’d bet on it.”

Quinn sipped on the drink in front of her. “What’s mixed in this?” she finally demanded. “I can hardly taste the alcohol in this!”

“It’s cranberry juice,” Kelsi said. She winked. “Sex is better when you’re sober.”

Quinn found herself playing pool, and before she knew it they were announcing last call. Quinn got in a few more dances, but once the patrons were gone, she slipped out of her shoes, and hung out in the booth by the door. She toyed with her phone, flipping it around in her hand, but refusing to look at it, refusing to see if Santana had sent her another text. She wondered if she had gone home with Jenna, if they would have been going at it yet. She wondered about Santana in a bar. She’d never seen the girl on a hunt. Sure she had witnessed her at Puck’s wedding, but that wasn’t the same as actively trolling. 

Quinn laughed to herself. Santana had tried to pick up the bartender at the wedding, and now she was going home with a bartender. At least she thought she was. Were they going to Kelsi’s place or Quinn’s? It was unlikely, like highly unlikely that Santana would actually be at her place, nor did she imagine that she should show up. And at her place, she didn’t have to be so nervous about it, nor did she have to get out of her bed until she was ready.

“Let’s go to my place,” Quinn said once they were outside.

Kelsi only hesitated for a second. “I’m not trying to get into the middle of something with you and your wife.”

Quinn gave a laugh. “We don’t live together. We have our own places.”

The relief was evident. “Oh. In that case.” She hooked her arm in Quinn’s. “My car’s over here.”

They made small talk during the car ride, the only disruption coming when Quinn gave her directions. Kelsi seemed to be very familiar with the area. They didn’t talk about what they were doing, and Quinn was kind of glad about that. She wondered if Jenna would have gotten handsy in the car. “This is it,” Quinn said, when Kelsi pulled to a stop. Quinn opened her door, but Kelsi didn’t.

“Aren’t you getting out?” she questioned.

Kelsi shook her head. “No. I really just wanted to make sure you got home okay. Listen, Luce, you seem like a really nice woman, and I don’t know your wife, but listening to you tonight, I think it’s not just her that would get hurt if we were to do this. I’m not telling you how to live your life, but don’t lose a girl that you love at home for a night in Panama City.”

Quinn wasn’t sure if the statement didn’t follow because she was drunk, or because it was as random as it seemed. “What?”

Kelsi shook her head. “Sorry, sometimes I relate life to song lyrics. I dated a girl in college who…anyway, It’s a country song by Bobby Pinson called _Don’t Ask Me How I Know_. You wouldn’t imagine how many times I’ve heard someone playing that song in the bar over their partner. It’s filled with the kind of sage advice you wish that someone would have told you _before_. You know like ‘forget your pride, buy her roses’, and ‘don’t drink the water in Mexico’. The point, Luce, is that it sounds to me that you love her a whole lot, and it sounds like she loves you, too. You guys got into an argument, you can work through that. Going home with some nothing woman you barely know; that’s a lot harder to take back.”

She gave Quinn a sad smile before she kissed her on the forehead. “Don’t ask me how I know. Good night, Quinn.”


	11. A Santana is faithful 100%

Quinn let herself into her apartment in a fit, angry at the self-righteousness of the bartender. Like seriously, who did she think she was? Quinn thought about reporting her to the bar owner because really she could have gone home with that girl, Jenna, and now she had to spend the night alone. Quinn really hated sleeping alone.

Quinn took a quick shower to wash off the stench of failure and the bar before she crawled beneath the sheets, dead in the middle. It was only then that she checked her phone. There was a text from Mercedes that she looked over without reading, and one from Santana. Santana’s message was even shorter than the first one she’d sent. All it said was: _Good Night_. Quinn couldn’t bring herself to respond back.

With tears in her eyes, Quinn pulled up begrudgingly pulled up YouTube on her phone, but unable to remember the name of the song she searched out the lyrics she remembered Kelsi saying, and found it that way. Before the song was even over, she had added it to her iTunes library, playing it on repeat until she fell asleep.

Quinn received her third text from Santana at 10:58 in the morning, just as she was waking up and contemplating getting out of bed. _Morning. Moved Aspirin to the lower cabinet._ 7 words.

_Fuck you_ , _Santana_ , Quinn thought as she stumbled up to get the aspirin. _No one told you to move anything in_ my _place_. She took the two aspirin and immediately felt worse, because even mad at her, Santana still had a desire to take care of her, and how could Santana say and do things that made it seem like she cared, when obviously she didn’t?

It was a long day. Quinn didn’t want to be in the house but she didn’t want to go anywhere else either. She contemplated calling Santana. She didn’t. She contemplated texting her; she didn’t do that either. She thought Santana was lucky because Santana probably wasn’t sitting at her place going through all of this. Santana probably wasn’t even thinking about Quinn. Santana had maybe gone out herself last night, or even better, had just called up Brittany. She did almost call up Santana, then, to cuss her out, but then remembered that she said she had to work today. She wondered if she was really at work, or if that had been a clever excuse to dash off to be with _her_ ; after all, Santana hadn’t mentioned having to work _before_ _Fondue for Two_.

Quinn actually contemplated spying on Santana until she remembered that she didn’t know where she worked, and how could she not know where her wife worked? That reminded her, she had never switched Santana over to be her emergency contact. Quinn hated how every sign pointed out to the fact that they didn’t have a real marriage.

The silence started to get to her, and the TV being on just made her cringe. She picked up her phone, toying with it. She wished that she _did_ have a relationship with her father; that Russell Fabray was the kind of man that she could go to for advice. Instead he’d always been the man who extoled the virtues of strength; deplored tears. Who told her and her sister repeatedly that they were Fabrays, and that in that there was an honor, and a code, and that they should follow it. She tried, lord knows she did, but every time she tried to be his perfect ideal, she fell hideously short. She tried so hard, she got pregnant, and she tried so hard again that she got Puck, and then she gave up because no matter what she would never, ever, be the kind of daughter that her father would be proud of. And now Santana wanted her to make amends with this man? Really?

She needed someone to talk to, though. Her mom was nice but what she really needed was to talk to her dad because all her mom could tell her about was what being married to a man was like, and no matter how much she and Santana joked back and forth about who was butch, or who was the most dude like of the two of them, Quinn wasn’t married to a guy. She was married to a woman, and what she needed was someone who could explain to her what it was like to be married to a woman. Who could commiserate on that. She didn’t have many gay friends, so who she needed was her father.

So she decided to call him.

It took a few rings, but the call finally connected. “Quinn,” the strong and unflinching male voice greeted. “To what do I owe the honor?” She didn’t feel guilty in calling him. What was the point of having a dad if you couldn’t go to him for advice, and Quinn had put it to together: this man was her dad. See if Quinn and Santana were related, and Santana and her dad were related, then Mr. Lopez was related to Quinn, thus by the associative property Mr. Lopez was now her dad. It was simple math.

“Santana and I got into an argument. A really bad one. I, I walked out on her.” Quinn felt guilt and shame grow in her belly as she said the words, and before she knew it she was crying and spilling everything. Like everything. This went on for so long without any input from Mr. Lopez that Quinn was sure he had hung up on her, probably in disgust.

In the first empty silence, however, he spoke up. “Quinn, Maribel and I have been married for 35 years, and if you think that we haven’t had an argument or two, you still have the blindness of youth, which I don’t think you do because you are a very intelligent young woman and should know better. Now I know that I’m not you, and Maribel is not Santana, but you want to know why I think that she and I have stayed together this long?”

Actually she was dying to know how they hadn’t left each other, yet. Her parents couldn’t hack it. Most people’s parents’ couldn’t. She didn’t know very many people who were actually happy and married. “Let me tell you the very first rule of being married: you _never_ walk out on your partner. Unless there is a threat of violence,” he quickly corrected, because he knew both of these girls very well, and he knew how fiery a temper they both had. “It’s a coward’s way out, and you’re not a coward, do you understand?”

If possible, Quinn felt even worse. “Yes, sir.”

“The second rule, and I know this is going to seem nearly impossible to your generation, but the second rule: keep your married business in your marriage. This means don’t put your partner down to other people, and don’t run off to tell other people things about your partner that they have no business knowing. You may think that it’s harmless, but I think that it plants this little seed of negativity inside of you about them, and then when your friend turns around and puts down your spouse, that little seed grows bigger. And then, before you know it, it has a life of its own, and you’re wondering how it got so out of control. Everyone has advice to offer, but not everyone needs to speak. And one of the worst things I think you can do is go to a single person and ask for advice about your marriage. What would they know about it, they’re not married?

“Also on this note, don’t put your business out on social media. It doesn’t disappear, and it doesn’t do you any favors. No one needs to know that you got in an argument with your wife. No one needs to know that you’re feeling very loving to your wife at the moment, either, because there are always the negative ones who will do anything to piss, pardon my language, on your happiness.

“My final advice is a secret wisdom that has been passed down from Lopez to Lopez and I’m entrusting you with it because you are now a Lopez. I’m a man married to a woman, and admittedly, I don’t know how lesbian relationships work, you know like when it comes to how things go in the relationship with there being two women and what not, but my dad offered me this golden nugget of advice, so I am passing it on to you. He said ‘Pedro, you are a Lopez, and when it comes to the women that we marry, no matter what, you’re always wrong. You always apologize first. It doesn’t matter if you told her that she packed the bags too full, and if she tries to carry them she’s going to spill every last grocery on the concrete. When that happens, you pick up the groceries, and make dinner with them because it’s still somehow your fault. So just apologize, and move on.”

Quinn wasn’t quite sure she could accept that. “Doesn’t that make me a push over?”

Mr. Lopez laughed. It was a deep chuckle that still resonated through the phone. “Let me tell you a story, Quinn. Maribel and I had just gotten married, and we were supposed to be watching my brother’s son, but we were paying more attention to each other than to him. Well, he rushes off, and gets lost in the crowd, and when Maribel and I notice, we panic. We’re scared, and worried, and fearful, because he was just a small kid, and so much could happen to him. So we’re so full of emotion that we’re just yelling at each other over whose fault it was, and you know what we’re not doing? We’re not looking for my brother’s kid. We were just wasting time trying to figure out who was at fault. When we realized that, we really went looking, and eventually we found him. I can still remember that fear, and that uncertainty, how my heart felt when my eyes took him in again, that hurt look on Maribel’s face at my harsh words. I remember my brother’s relief when Aaron was brought home safe and sound, but you know what I don’t remember about that whole thing?”

Quinn shook her head, then remembered that she was on the phone. “No.”

“Whose fault it was,” Mr. Lopez responded. “When it comes down to it, it doesn’t matter who is right or wrong in the argument, it matters how you conduct yourself when you’re put through the wringer. There is no right or wrong, or winning or losing because you are partners. I can understand not wanting to be a push over, but pride goes before destruction; a haughty spirit before a fall. As far as I’m concerned, you can keep your pride, or you can keep your marriage. You can either have the type of marriage that damages you from the inside out, the other the kind that brings joy to your spirit. The difference is that in one the person asks, ‘how do I make this work for me’, and in the other, the person asks, ‘how do I make it work for _us_.’ There are two of you in the marriage. It’s not Santana and Quinn anymore, it’s Saninn, and if you can’t handle that, then you’re not going to be able to have a fruitful marriage. And of course that’s what I want you to have.

“You asked for advice, this is the advice that I’m giving you: apologize and move on.”

Quinn was asleep when she received the fourth text from Santana, a simple ‘Good Night, Quinn’, and saw it after she had woken up, and hung up on Santana. Not intentionally. Well, it’d been halfway intentional. Quinn had just heard Santana’s ringtone ( _Wild Thing)_ , hesitated, meant to click ignore, connected the call instead, and then when she realized what she done, she quickly hung up the phone. The fifth text message came so quickly after that Quinn wondered if Santana had actually written the text before she made the call. The second time she read over Santana’s _Just checking to make sure you’re still alive_ text she knew that she had. The thought made Quinn nearly throw her phone across the room because Santana thought she knew Quinn so damn well.

Quinn reluctantly drove to work, and ended up getting at the absolutely worst time because three other of her coworkers ended up getting there at the same time she did. “Hey Quinn,” Ryan greeted her happily. She bit down on her lip when he matched her stride as they made their way to the elevator. “Have a good weekend?” he questioned. 

Quinn was grateful for the years of practice she had masking her emotions because she was sure everyone would look at her like she was crazy, if she had barked out a laugh at that. “About the same,” she lied evenly. “Yourself?”

“Awesome: me and my friend Chaz went to a Sox game.”

“Did they win?”

“Not really. Hey,” he waited for the elevator to empty before he too got off and Quinn could either do the same, or end up going up another floor. “I was thinking that we could go out for drinks some time.”

Quinn gave him a very neutral smile. “Yea, sure. The next time Connie and them want to get together a group, that sounds great,” she said cheerily, purposely misunderstanding his intentions.

“I was actually talking about just the two of us.”

At this Quinn pretended to be surprised. “Oh. Ryan, I didn’t realize that you didn’t know. I’m married.” She held up her hand to show him, feeling slightly bad when she saw his face fall. “But like I said, if you want to get a group-,”

He stalked off.

It turns out that bad days in your home life and bad days in your work life are like a group of women that spend too much time around each other: they sync up. Quinn always thought that being a financial analyst was something that sounded fun, and daring, and she would get to drive around town in a super-hot, expensive sports car, and buy a lot of nice clothes. Instead, it was a super stressful, highly demanding job, in which people like Quinn made people above her and her clients very wealthy, and she herself drove a Prius. Santana once said it’s how she knew Quinn was a closet lesbian. 

The day dragged unfathomably slow. And the only thing that was worse than a slow day was a slow day where it seemed like _everyone_ was either on her ass or on her nerves. And to completely top it off, she discovered she had started two days early, so she had to use the scratchy Tampons that they kept in the bathroom, because it started after lunch, and wasn’t expecting this misery for another _two_ days.

At 4:01, Quinn decided that when she got off work she would pretend it was just like any other day, (and coincidentally face Santana for the first time since her storm out), and at 4:02, the clock started to speed up impossibly fast. Her manager, who had been gripping to her all day about her being slow with her work, didn’t demand that she stay late to finish and even suggested that she go home and get a good rest because then maybe she could come to work tomorrow ready to work. They shared an elevator down together, and the whole time she kept imaging scenarios that would end with him being squashed like a bug.

Although Quinn had decided to head to Santana’s after work, she had no idea what she’d say to her when she got there. When she was in front of her building, and still hadn’t come up with anything brilliant, she decided to just wing it. She walked up the stairs slowly, counting out every step her feet made, the walk feeling a lot like how she imagined it felt to walk down the Green Mile. She held her breath as she inserted her key into the lock, fearing that Santana had changed the locks on her. She hadn’t, her key slid easily through the lock, but the sight that greeted her was so unexpected that she stepped outside to check the number on the door just to make sure she had the right apartment.

The place was completely spotless; all the dishes were done and put away, the floor swept clean, shoes stacked by the doorway, and even the stacks of paper that Santana brought home from work and were usually lying (neatly) around, were gone. Santana, too, was gone; it was immediately apparent that no one was home.

Still, Quinn went searching through all of the rooms, just to make sure. It was Monday. On Mondays, Santana got off of work first, so they spent Mondays at her place. Quinn waited for a half-hour before she gave up and started driving to her own place. She didn’t feel so condemned when she walked down her hallway, because she didn’t expect Santana to be at her place-mostly for the aforementioned reason and that being that Mondays were Santana’s place.

Quinn unlocked her apartment door heavily, but not expecting anything to be behind it, so when she got in she kind of just froze in the doorway of the room. Quinn’s place had gone through a similar treatment. The difference in the two places, though, was that Santana was here, and had cooked, or was cooking. Quinn could smell it from the doorway. She followed her nose into the semi-enclosed area, only stopping when she realized that Santana was in the kitchen.

Her heart leapt at the sight of Santana standing in her kitchen, but her mouth didn’t know when to shut up. “What’re you doing here?” Quinn demanded.

Santana turned at her words, though she had to have already known that she had come in, that she had been in the house. Known and not come out to greet her with a kiss, and every now and then one of her wine coolers or a glass of water. She didn’t ask her how her day was. Instead, she watched her with those intense eyes, causing Quinn to squirm underneath the gaze. Quinn had almost forgotten just how beautiful this woman was.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to stay,” Santana said. “I just came by to drop something off.”

Santana motioned to a stack of papers that were sitting on the counter. From the second Santana gestured to them, Quinn had a bad feeling. She commanded her eyes not to look, but they didn’t listen because they looked at what Santana had decided to bring for her. She wanted to stop reading at “Common Wealth of Massachusetts” but almost as if her eyes were working against her, they traveled downwards and picked up the lines ‘trial court’, and ‘probate and family department’, and ‘joint petition’, collecting the words together as if they would add up to something whole, when the end result of all of those words together was nothing. She looked up at Santana because the only other option would be to keep looking at those papers, letting them become real.

“I figured that you would have waited at my apartment for an hour before you came here; otherwise dinner would have actually been ready.”

Quinn tried to add Santana’s words to the words that added up to nothing, and couldn’t place how they all fit together. “What’s this?” she questioned, gesturing vaguely to the black hole on the counter.

“They’re divorce papers,” Santana said evenly, never taking her eyes off of Quinn’s face. “I’m giving you the excuse you need to walk away, because that’s what you’ve been asking for right? You, I feel that you keep taking every single thing I do wrong, and let it work you up into a frenzy because you keep expecting something to go wrong with us, and I’ve been trying to figure out a solution to this problem, and-,”

Quinn sneered. “This is what you came up with?”

“Tell me that this isn’t what you want.”

“So it’s my fault?”

Santana sighed. Turning off the burners. “No, it’s not your fault. This isn’t about fault, and this isn’t about _an_ argument. I _know_ how to argue with you; we’ve been doing it for years. I can argue with you until we’re both blue in the face, as long as you fight fair, but you cheated, Quinn! You walked out!” 

Quinn flinched at the accusation, but instead of agreeing, her jaw clinched. “You left, too!”

“I went into the kitchen to get a freaking beer! I didn’t tell you to fuck off and walk out of our home. I didn’t not come home. I didn’t let us go to sleep without at least saying good night to each other. There are other rooms in the apartment, there’s other space in the building. Take a walk around the fucking neighborhood, but don’t just not come back home! We don’t get to act like we’re just hook-ups to each other anymore! You want to sleep apart, fine, tell me that! You want to hook up with other people, fine, tell me that! As long as we’re on the same page.”

“Page?” Quinn demanded. “What _page_ , Santana? We got married because you wanted to win a bet!”

Santana looked like she wanted to throw something, or break something. “So, what!” Santana growled from sheer frustration. “So for that reason, and that reason alone we can’t actually try having an actual marriage?”

“So, everything! How am I supposed to take anything seriously, how am I supposed to know that there are rules when this was always a joke?”

“People get married for dumb or dumber reasons every, single, day! Just because there was a bet involved, doesn’t mean that I don’t care about this relationship. It’s not like it was just random. We’ve kept an ongoing relationship for _nine_ fucking years, and I do mean that literally. We were once really, really good friends to each other.” Quinn scoffed. “Look, just because we might have screwed each other over every now and then, doesn’t change the fact that we were there for each other when it counted. That we cared for each other.

“So because I’m not good at this whole married thing that makes it a joke? I’ve never been married before! I’ve never been right here before this, so yeah, I’ve done an awful lot of messing up, but I’m learning! Our relationship has always been one of two things: it’s either been a 100% sexual, or it’s been a dynamic friendship with a sexual undertone that has every potential of blowing up for no reason whatsoever. We’ve never done both. We’ve never been friends and have sex at the same time. For the past couple of years it’s mostly been about the sex. So yeah, I mention sex a lot. That’s what you like. At least that’s what you liked. That’s what we did.

“So forgive me for not being able to turn nine years’ worth of behavior off in a month. I like sex, and I like having sex with you. I like having a lot of sex with you, but for God’s sake if I was only after you because I wanted someone to help me keep the bed warm, well I’m an attractive woman, and it’s a pretty big fucking world out there, yet I’m here in this small, tiny, space with you, arguing about everything when I don’t even fucking have to!”

“Then don’t!” Quinn screamed. “You’ve done a real good job at showing how much you really don’t have to!”

“I’ll admit that I’ve pooched things, but this hasn’t been all me, and I will be damned if I allow you to place it all on my shoulders as if I’m the one solely in the wrong, and you’re guilt free. I flirt, I do, and I can admit that, but so do you. Even if you’re not as overt with it as I am, you still flirt, so it’s not fair to call me on my shit. And I _didn’t_ kiss Brittany: she kissed me. She kissed me, but you felt the need to punish me for something that I had no control over! I know how much her and my relationship makes you feel insecure about ours, and I would never knowingly do something to prey on that insecurity you have about me and her. Even when we were at war with each other back in high school, we knew there were boundaries to our fights, and no matter what, we never crossed them.

“Lo siento! I’m sorry that I came across as not understanding about your father. I’m sorry about the show, and about Brittany, and the reception, and because I flirt. I am sorry that those things hurt you. I was not trying to hurt you. I do not strive to do things that will hurt you, Quinn, whether you believe that or not. But I’m me. I will always be me. You can’t be upset about the things that make me, me, when that’s who you married. I can work on the things that are changeable, but I will always be that sarcastic, crude, somewhat insensitive, sexy as hell, bad ass that has a healthy libido, and enjoys coming home to her wife and expressing that. That has to be good enough for you, Quinn, because you married Santana Lopez, no one else; I can’t be anyone else. I’m not asking you to be any one other than who you are either; I’m prepared for a fight as long as it’s fair, but you have to tell me what you want!”

Quinn watched Santana draw in haggard breaths, winded by her speech. “I’m on my period,” Quinn inexplicably said.

Santana’s eyes narrowed, clearly confused. “Are you really trying to use that as an excuse for…everything?”

Quinn shot her an angry look. “No, it’s not,” she snapped. “I was just telling you that because you said that before we got married that if I married you, you’d watch _Sex & the City _with me, and feed me chocolates when I was on my period. You asked me what I want: I want to watch _Sex & the City_.”

Quinn watched Santana’s eyes lower, scanning her own. Keeping careful watch on the expression behind her gaze. Quinn had perfected masks over the years, but Santana had perfected learning how to read her. “You’re really expecting me to hold to that _now._ ”

“Yes,” Quinn said seriously. She would take what she could. “You don’t make promises because they’re easy, you make promises to prove that you can keep your word even when things get hard. You promised you’d watch _Sex and the City_ with me, and I’m holding you to it.”

Santana just stared with that darkly intense look. “Okay,” she finally said. Quinn could have left to dig out the DVDs and put them on, but she wanted to stay. She watched Santana dish out two helpings, and then with her back to her, did something in one of the drawers and turned around with a bag of Reese Cups Minis in her hand. “Where did those come from?”

Santana winked. “It’s a secret.”

“How do you have secrets in my apartment?”

Santana gave an amused, showy grin. “You’d be surprised at the things that I manage to keep hidden,” she said, and she could have been talking about food, money, or things far more explosive for all Quinn knew. When there food was sitting on the coffee table, and Santana was situated on the couch, in front of Quinn’s modest television, Quinn searched out the DVD and turned it on to the last season she had watched.

They sat about a foot away from each other, Quinn’s feet curled up beneath her, Santana’s feet perched on the coffee table, almost like she was challenging Quinn to say something to her about it. The silence was companionable while Santana was busy eating her Chicken Tetrazzini, but once she was done with it, she started to get chatty. “Now, who is who, again?”

Quinn gave a scowl at Santana. “You’ve never watched this before?”

Santana snorted. “You know I haven’t.”

Quinn quickly pointed out the characters of which Santana quickly forgot. “So all they talk about is sex?”

“Yes!” Quinn hissed. “So it should be right up your alley!”

“How in the world did you get Russell to allow you to watch this?”

“It’s not exactly as if I advertised!”

As they made their way through Season 3, they progressively got closer together so that by the time that _Drama Queens_ came on, they were very nearly touching, but then came the lunchroom scene that sounded an awful lot like a rundown of Quinn and Santana, and their marriage, and they drew apart.

“Remind me, why do you like this show so much?”

Quinn shushed her. “You promised you would watch and not talk.”

“No, I promised I would watch and not _complain_. Much. I haven’t _complained_ about anything yet. I’m just trying to figure out what’s going on. And the red-head? Totally a les!”

“She came out in 2007.”

Santana clapped her hands together. “Totally called it.”

“Would you have sex with her?”

“She has to be like 50 or something.”

“Not now, like back then.”

Santana’s lips curled. “Not on your life.”

“What about Carrie?”

Santana half watched the action on the screen. “Which one’s Carrie?”

“Sarah Jessica Parker’s character.”

“No.”

“No!” Quinn protested, disbelieving. “She’s blonde.”

“You know, I know everyone thinks that I just have this thing for blonde’s, but I really don’t. Noah, wasn’t a blonde, Finn wasn’t a blonde.”

“Sam was, and anyway they were all guys.”

“Sam was just to get back at you.”

“I know that’s why you started dating him, but I could never understand why you ended things with him. He was the perfect beard for you.”

Santana fiddled with a string on her shirt. “He was too perfect.” Quinn just stared and eventually she buckled. “Okay, I thought he was a nice guy. I felt bad for him. I felt bad about using him, there, happy?”

“Mildly.”

“And you’re not a blonde, either, not the hair that I like, anyway, so Britt was the only blonde I was ever actually with.”

“I’m sorry, San,” Quinn blurted, suddenly. Without taking her eyes off of her, Quinn picked up the remote and muted the television. “For…I shouldn’t have walked out. I shouldn’t have ignored your text, and I should have come home. I shouldn’t have treated you as if you were…as if the only thing that we had between us was sex. I’m sorry for telling you to fuck off, and I’m sorry I blew up over my dad. I still feel like you should have respected my decision to not want him to come.”

“I do-,” Santana interjected. “I think that one day you’re going to regret it if you don’t try to meet him at least part of the way. I’m not saying this to lessen any of your feelings towards that man, I only say that because I would kill, Quinn, I would absolutely kill for my grandmother to even just _look_ at me again. She hurt me, she made me feel worthless, she abandoned me…,” Santana angrily brushed away her tears, “but she still belongs to me. If she came to me and said that she wants to be at the reception, I would send a limo to pick her up. I know we grew up in completely different family situations; in my family, friends, jobs, money that all comes and goes, but your family is always your blood. I guess I was kind of thinking that since you and I are supposed to be a family now, that family decisions belonged to both of us. If I overstepped my boundary there, I’m sorry. I just want you to know, though, that I’m not trying to do anything to purposely hurt you.”

Quinn shifted, uncomfortably. “It’s hard for me to accept that.”

Santana nodded. “I know.”

“You should have told me about, Brittany.”

Again, she nodded. “I know, babe, and I promise, I _promise_ the only reason I didn’t because I know how much my past relationship with Brittany makes you feel insecure in us, and things were so rocky lately, I didn’t want to mess things up any more than they already were, but I did mess up. I should have told you as soon as it happened.”

“Yea. It’s not easy for me to talk about feelings.”

Santana nodded in agreement. “Quinn, turst me when I say that this is the most vulnerable you’ll probably ever get to see me, and most likely tomorrow I’ll be calling you Tubbers again. But our relationship means something to me, so don’t think that I’m not going to fight-”

Quinn felt herself get riled up with those words, and without realizing it anger returned. “Is that why there are divorce papers sitting on the kitchen counter? Because you want to fight?”

“Yes, Quinn, that is exactly why.”

Whatever space that’d been earned between them, was gone, and they were back to opposite sides of the couch. “What logical sense does that make, Santana? How am I supposed to believe that you want this relationship when one argument has you wanting out? You’re actions run counter to your words!” Santana stood up abruptly. “Now who’s leaving?” Quinn yelled at her back. She realized that she was being childish, purposely combative at this point, but she didn’t know how to be vulnerable. Every time she went to that place, someone always hurt her.

“I’m not leaving,” Santana called quietly over her shoulder. She disappeared into the kitchen, and came back with the papers that’d been left behind. She sat them in Quinn’s lap. “Look at the last page,” she directed. Quinn flipped as Santana talked. “I don’t want to get a divorce; that is the last thing that I ever want to do, but if that’s what it takes for you to have enough security about us to not think that everything I do is a slight against you, that I’m here because of a bet, then I will.” Quinn stared blankly at the last page that Santana had clipped together. It was a marriage petition. “But if we do get a divorce, I’m just going to turn around and ask you to marry me again. I _want_ to be married to you, I _want_ to be with you. No matter how hard you push, you won’t push me away. I won’t let you. I care about this too much.”

Quinn realized that she had started crying. She shook her head, brushing the tears away. “Why?” she questioned earnestly. “I’m not soft. I’m not _easy_.” She bit down on the uneasy feeling rumbling around her belly, but then finally decided to say the words that rambled around in her head all the time anyway. “I’m not Brittany.”

“No, you’re not,” Santana agreed.

Quinn just blinked in acceptance. “And no matter what, you’ll never love me the way you love Brittany.”

Quinn could feel Santana stiffen on the couch beside her, but she couldn’t bring herself to look at Santana. “You’re right,” Santana said. It was what Quinn was expecting to hear, to be honest, but that didn’t change any the feeling those sting her words brought about. “I will never love you the way that I love Brittany. I will never love _anyone_ the way I loved Brittany because no one else _is_ Brittany. You know something, Fabray? I honestly didn’t sign up for this! Shit, I expect the dramatics from Berry, but not you. But between the storm outs and the tears, it’s all just starting to get to be too much for me!

“If the kids of McKinley could see you now, I swear they wouldn’t believe that you used to make them scamper away from you! They would have had you carrying their books. They never would have voted you Queen. When I asked you to marry me, I thought I was fucking getting a winner, someone who could keep up with me in the bedroom, almost, and matched up to me in sheer bitchdom, but no, instead I get this! Some pathetic sap who whines because I don’t want to pick out card samples? Like what the fuck is that? What’s next, are you going to cry because I don’t tuck you into bed, too?”

“Shut up, Santana!”

She didn’t. “Tell you what: next Saturday, I’ll take you to the pond to feed the ducks, and then the circus to hang out with the clowns, and just to top it off, I’ll take you on a unicorn hunt because if you can catch a unicorn you get to make a wish, and maybe you can wish for a fucking clue, bigger breasts, and a better cure for stretch marks because the last time you wished for that it just didn’t work!”

Quinn felt her hand reaching out in a familiar motion, but Santana didn’t even flinch as Quinn’s hand moved closer to her face. She did sigh, softly, when Quinn’s hand touched her cheek, her thumb gently wiping away a leftover tear. She pulled Santana down on top of her, kissing her fiercely. “Lopez,” Quinn corrected once they had pulled away, both breathing hard.

“Yes?”

“I wasn’t calling your name. You called me Fabray. It’s Fabray- _Lopez_.”

Santana leaned down to initiate another round of kissing. “Damn right it is!” It didn’t take long before it was determined that clothes were just in the way, but it had been a couple of days and there were _things_ that they needed to work out anyway, so as much fun as it would have been for the clothes to be off, neither of them really had time to wait for that to happen. Quinn’s shirt was hanging around her neck, and beneath that her bra was half off exposing one breast, and Santana’s pants had made it down only as far as her thighs. Santana’s hand was reaching to slip beneath Quinn’s waistband, when they both seemed to remember. “Are you really on your period, or were you faking it.”

Quinn sighed. “Sadly…”

Santana’s fingers drew back so quickly Quinn wondered if she thought her lady parts were going to bite her. “Ah, fuck, Q!”

“Trust me, I wish you would,” Quinn said cleverly. Santana sat back for a second. “What about dry humping?”

Quinn actually considered that for a second, but too many years in the Fabray household prevented her from saying yes. Santana grumped for a solid minute before she adjusted her and Quinn’s clothes, and pulled Quinn into her lap. “On to the next episode then.”

They watched a few more episodes until they were both half asleep, and they retired to the bedroom. They didn’t really wake up, just sleepily slipped out of their clothes, and collapsed into the bed together.

“This doesn’t make things right between us,” Quinn said softly.

“No it doesn’t,” Santana agreed.

Maybe a minute passed. Maybe longer. “Hey San?”

“Yeah, babe?”

“Are you asleep?”

“Yep.”

Santana could feel the sudden tension in Quinn’s muscles, which caused her to open her eyes. “Please never stop.”

Santana drew Quinn’s face up so they were looking at each other. “I won’t,” she said solemnly. “I promise.” Quinn held her look for half a minute.

“Okay then,” she finally said. “Okay.”


	12. The Na'Vi don't speak Klingon

_Get UP! Don’t cha wanna? Get UP! This time ya gotta, GET UP! Girl get up on the floor! GET Up! Time is Wastin’, Get UP, asses shaking, GET Up, Girl, get up on the floor!_

“What the hell?” Santana protested, burying herself further into Quinn’s side. She momentarily paused, registering Quinn’s body tucked into hers, and she gave a soft sigh of contentment; the past two nights had been nothing but pure torture and she’d hated every minute of them. She tightened her hold on her. “What _is_ that?”

_Get UP! Don’t cha wanna? Get UP! This time ya gotta, GET UP! Girl get up on the floor!_ “Hey,” Santana protested when Quinn moved from beneath her arm to turn off that infernal racket that was assaulting her ears.

“Hey, Mercedes,”

Santana reluctantly opened an eye. “Babe, tell her to fuck off, and come back to bed!” Quinn waved her away, telling her to go back to sleep. “Oh, no, sweetie, I’m sorry. Why didn’t you call me sooner? No, it’s fine, of course we can talk.”

Santana briefly quirked an eyebrow, but then decided that she didn’t care and closed her eyes again. Her body didn’t seem to agree that she didn’t care, because it refused to let her go back to sleep without Quinn’s body beside her, so she half listened to Quinn’s side of the call.

“He was a jerk anyway….he wasn’t the one…oh God, don’t even kid about that. That’s not funny…I’m not ready for that to happen. And no more unexpected births!”

Santana wasn’t sure because she was only getting one side of the conversation, and sine Quinn was doing her best to whisper she was only able to catch snippets, but from what she gathered Mercedes had just broken up with her latest boyfriend. And judging by what she heard, like he had just broken up with her moments before she called Quinn. Santana checked the clock. It was 1:13. From Santana’s experiences (not she had ever done that), that meant that he’d either broke up with her right before he had sex with another woman, or write after they had had sex. Knowing how reluctant and conservative Mercedes was when it came to sex made it an especially low blow. Poor Mercedes.

Santana got out of the bed and walked over to where Quinn was sitting on the window seat. “Can I see the phone?”

Quinn sent her a warning glare. _Trust me_ , Santana mouthed. “Hold on Mercedes, Santana wants to talk to you.” Reluctantly, Santana handed the phone over.

“Wheeze, where’s he hang out on the weekends?”

“Downtown.”

“What club, what place does he frequent?”

“The Back Door Lounge.”

“Is he usually there on Friday nights?”

Mercedes sniffled. God, she’d been crying. “Most of the time.”

“If I promise you that he won’t have a very good weekend this weekend, can you postpone this conversation for a couple of hours so the wife and I can get some sleep?”

“You’re not going to get someone to beat him up like you did with Finn and Brody are you?”

Santana wondered who told her about Finn and Brody. “No.”

She could just imagine Mercedes wiping her eyes. “Because if you did, I would be okay with that.”

Santana laughed softly. “I’ll keep that in mind. ‘Cedes, I’m sorry he broke up with you, especially like this. He was a tool.”

“But I really _liked_ him. I thought he was the one.”

“Seriously, ‘Cedes, he was a complete tool. None us liked him. Like, no one. Even,” she looked at her raptly listening wife, and decided not to say the name, “didn’t like him. And this person usually likes everyone. He wasn’t good enough for you.”

There was an empty pause on the line. “Thanks, San,” she said, sounded entirely genuine.

Santana winked a wink she couldn’t see. “So, Friday. And when he calls you next week, whatever you do, do not fall for any of his bullshit, because I promise I will do you bodily harm if you get back with him.”

“He’s not going to,” she said, sadly.

“Trust me, he will.” It was the calling card of daters like him. Forever distracted by the next pretty face, but as soon as that pretty face was gone, they always went back. If Mercedes took him back, he would just keep doing this dance, and then Santana would have to break his legs. Or get someone else to do it. “So can we get some sleep, and Quinn will call you in the morning?”

“Yeah.”

“Will you be okay?”

“Yea, I’m just going to go to bed. Tell Quinn I’ll call her in the morning?”

“I will, night.”

She handed Quinn the phone back, once the call was ended. “She’ll call you. Can we go back to bed now?”

“What’re you going to do to that guy?”

“Me? Nothing at all. Bed?”

Quinn sighed. “I guess.” Santana sent out two text messages before, she got into bed, and with Quinn secure on the bed, she fell back asleep.

“Puck, no don’t go down there. Abort, abort!” Santana watched as Puck stupidly went down the troll path, and predictably ended up getting attacked by a clan of dwarfs. Santana just let her avatar stand there for a second, watching. “I really should just let you die,” she said.

“Don’t be cruel. Come on, San,” Puck whined. “I’ve only got two more lives left until tomorrow. If I lose them, we’re done for the day!”

Her hands were tied. “Fine, I’m coming.”

She raced her character down the hidden path, using her precious invisibility to get past the troll guard, before rushing into the mass of dwarfs who were attacking him. Santana was in the process of dragging him away, and fighting off the dwarfs, when Quinn walked through the door. “What the hell is this?” Quinn questioned, eyeing the condition of Santana’s living room which had been spotless 24 hour earlier. Santana froze with her sword in the air. Pixies rushed her from nowhere, and she got taken out by a semi-automatic carrying evil clown.

“Flopez,” Puck demanded in her ear piece, “what happened?”

“Wife just got home,” she explained.

Puck grunted, the cursor hovering over restarting the adventure. “So, does this mean you’re out then? Oh, and tell baby mama I said hi.”

“Not sure. Give me a sec.” Santana gave Quinn a quick kiss. “Puck says ‘hi’. How was your day, baby?”

Quinn didn’t answer, looking around the room, before looking Santana over. “What in the world are you wearing?”

Santana moved the mike a little away from her mouth. She struck a pose, proudly displaying the costume. “It’s my Kari rain-warrior ceremonial dress.”

“Oh, no way! You’re fully decked out, San?” Puck questioned excitedly. “Dude you’ve got to send pictures!”

“Can’t,” Santana told her friend, “I’m not wearing a shirt.”

“Send them now! Hey, wait, didn’t you chew me out a couple of days ago because I wasn’t wearing a shirt when you called?”

“Are you complaining?”

“Oh, right. So pic?”

“I’m pretty sure my wife wouldn’t like that too much.” Quinn’s expression confirmed that. “And I definitely am not cool with you having a half-naked image of me.”

“Well, boo, but I bet it looks awesome! Are you in full face paint too?”

“It does look awesome, and no. I ran out of all of my purple eye shadow. I think Quinn’s been using it. Hey, I didn’t even tell you: I got the special sword that hooks up to the controller and the movement pad.”

“Oh, my god, I married a complete dork,” Quinn mumbled.

“Really?” Puck said at the same time. “Legit.”

“Hold on, Puck, wife’s giving me eyes.”

Quinn rolled her eyes at Santana, then, and smiled. “No, I’m not giving you eyes, Santana. Go back to playing your game. I’m going to get out of these clothes and take a bath.”

“Long day?” Santana asked with concern.

Quinn sighed, rubbing the back of her neck. “The longest. You know what would be awesome?”

“What’s that?”

“If after I get finished taking a nice, hot, relaxing bath, someone could come give me a massage and help me get some of these knots out.”

“That would be awesome,” Santana agreed. “Do you think you can find one of those masseuses who do those happy endings? I’d like to watch.”

“Still here,” Puck reminded her. 

“Still married,” Santana returned.

Quinn gave her a look. “I’ll leave you to your game.”

Santana watched her walk away, momentarily forgetting what she was doing, and wondering why she wasn’t following after her. In her ear Puck knowingly said, “I used to enjoy watching her leave, too.”

She turned back into the present. “Listen, Noah, no part of my wife’s goods are you allowed to gawk at, or touch, and that includes in your head. Don’t make me castrate you.”

“Whatevs. So are we doing this or what?”

“We can restart the quest but I’ll probably just sign out as soon as Quinn comes out the bath.”

“God, you’re whipped.”

“I’m nowhere close to being whipped,” Santana returned. “And besides the only reason you’re still playing is because Shelly’s at work. If she were still there, you’d be rushing after her to see if there was anything you could do.”

Noah made the cracked sound in her ear in response. Santana pressed start and hoped that there were some flying monkeys ready to descend on Puck.

The duo had just made it to the wild scrolling west hills when Quinn finished with her bath. She came back dressed in loose sleep pants and a tank. “You come to watch me dominate this?” Santana questioned. She switched over to the regular game controller so she could sit down on the couch. She patted her lap, reaching for Quinn. “I’m not going to watch you play a video game.”

“Why not? You know you want to.” Quinn looked like she wasn’t sure what propelled her forward, but she took a seat in Santana’s lap. Her wife’s arms instantly adjusted around her, holding her tightly. She kissed her back. “You smell good,” she complimented. Puck! There’s an Imperial Scout advancing on your right flank. Be careful of him!”

“How long are you going to be on this game?”

“Dunno.”

“Did you cook?”

Santana worked her controller desperately. “Are you watching him, Puck? No; haven’t had a chance to get around to it. I’ve been on the game.”

“How long have you been home?”

“It’s Tuesday, babe. Puck, he’s about to break into your defenses!”

Puck shot off a fire bomb. “Totally got this, Flopez.”

“You _know_ Tuesdays game night with Puck.” Santana’s eyes rolled around to take in Quinn. “I guess I’m calling this one, Puck. Redo, tomorrow? You get off post at 15:00 right?”

“Yea.” Santana remembered that tomorrow was Wednesday, which meant she would be at Quinn’s, and away from her system. “What about Thursday?”

“No, we’re doing preparation drills on Thursday.”

“Damn, well, we’ll just have to wait until next Tuesday. Lates!”

He made the cracked whip sound. “I am not!” Santana hissed.

“Keep telling yourself that,” he joked.

“X: Out.” She said, clearly. The game turned off, and she had that hollow sound in her ear that meant she was alone.

Santana turned her attentions to Quinn now that the game was off. “You smell really good, babe.” She kissed her again, starting to work her hands along Quinn’s back. “How was your bath?”

“Good,” Quinn answered. “Can you get that spot further up,” Santana’s hands moved. “Right there?”

“Yeah, oh man that feels so good. San, why were you playing a video game half naked with the camera on?”

“M’not half naked. I’m in ceremonial garb. And it’s not a camera, it’s a motion sensor. Well, I guess it’s also a camera, but it wasn’t turned on. Trust me; Puck is the last person I would want in possession of me, in my bra and garb, wielding my sword of Hiclix.”

“You’re what and…what?”

“Sword of Hiclix,” Santana repeated, showing her the sword/controller. Quinn shook her head, because seriously, never expected this to be a scene and conversation she would have with Santana.

“Why is it that you become progressively dumber whenever you’re around Puck?”

Santana snorted. “I seriously take offense to that! Knights of Adventure Lost Run takes strategic planning and serious forethought.”

“You act like you’re two 12 year old boys when you get around each other, and apparently when you’re on the phone together, too.”

“No, _he_ acts like a 12 year old boy; I act like a 12 year old girl who likes to do cool things like climb trees, and make mud pies, and wear pretty dresses while I’m doing them.” Santana shrugged. “Me and Puck together are like the pseudobiceros hancockanus; you know when they penis fence and what not?”

Santana may as well have grown two heads and a tail from the look Quinn gave her. “Okay. I have no idea what you said. Did you just call yourself a fake bi curious handcock with an anus and a penis? I’ve been between your legs, San, and you don’t have a penis.”

A very tender look settled on Santana’s face. “Pseudo biceros han cockanus,” she said pronouncing the words more slowly this time, as if the pronunciation had been the problem in the first place. “Come on Ms. Yale, put that Ivy League education to work for you. Pseudo meaning false, yes, so you got one right, bi = two, ceros = horns,” Santana held up a hand. “You know what? Forget that. It’s a type of flatworm.” (A really pretty one, actually).

Santana mimicked the voice of their 9th grade Biology teacher. “Flatworms, as you know, are hermaphroditic. These particular ones, when it’s mating time, two of them come together, and they whip it out and ‘fence’ with their organs. When one of them succeeds in penetrating the other, the other flatworm, who was sexless up until that moment, then becomes female, while the one who won the fight becomes male.”

Quinn’s look grew even more confused. “And this pertains to you and Puck _how_? Please don’t say it’s because you and Puck fought, and he won, so you…nope, I just don’t get it. I don’t get this analogy.”

“It’s a metaphor. See, my mind is like this highly functioning awesomeness machine that’s constantly going at like a 100 miles per hour when I’m alone, which can be tiring, so when I’m around someone else, it becomes this blank slate. Like the flatworms. So when Puck and I “penis lance”, and I mean that only as a metaphor, since my mind has worked harder and is more tired, he wins, I get stuck, and my personality changes. Since he’s like a 12 year old boy, my 12 year old comes out. Just like when I’m around Berry, my Broadway baby comes out, when I’m around you my inner bitch comes out, when I’m around Kurt, well we’re already so much alike there’s little changing to be done, but you get the idea. Or, to say it simply, Puck’s fun, I like having fun with him, and luckily enough we share the same kind of fun: girls, liquor, and adventure gaming.”

“You know you really could have said that without referring to the whole bi-curious anus flatworm.”

Santana gave her a kiss. “Psudeobiceros hancockanus and 99% of the time, I do. Should I put Sex and the City on for you?”

Quinn paused, hesitantly. “Umm can we talk for a second first?”

“Sure,” Santana said.

“Remember yesterday when we talked about being on the same page?”

Just then the doorbell rang. Santana gratefully jumped up. “Dinner,” Santana said eagerly. “What’s that look for?” Santana questioned on her return.

“I want to talk about being on the same page.”

Santana frowned slightly. “What, you want dinner, here’s dinner. I have hunted down the beast and speared him for you, babe.”

“I just think that when you’re home first, on Monday, Tuesdays, and Thursdays, you can throw something together for dinner.”

“You like take-out.”

“And it’s fine, every now and then. I don’t want it every day of the week.”

“I made chicken tetrazzini yesterday!”

“That was guilt food.”

“No, it wasn’t, Q. I wasn’t the one feeling guilty.”

Quinn sighed. “Can you at least hear what I’m saying? It’s not about food, it’s about keeping both of the places neat, and taking turns with the laundry, and-,”

Santana held up a hand, not wanting Quinn to get worked up. “And trying. I got it, and I will try, babe? Okay?”

Santana watched Quinn checking her face trying to figure out if she was serious. “Thank you,” she responded.

“No prob. Just respect that Tuesday is game night, and if you happen to come home and I’m wearing my Kari ceremonial garb or my Forde of Niliam armor, you’re not allowed to say anything about it.”

“Ford of…who _are_ you?”

“Whatever, I’m totally cool, you’re just too lame to realize it.”

Quinn rolled her eyes, but then she smiled. “Well, you do look pretty hot in that…”

“Kari rain-warrior ceremonial garb.”

“That,” Quinn said, kissing her.

“Totally sexy.”

Quinn leaned forward. “Oh…totally,” she said, in a very nice valley girl impression. “ _For sure.”_ Santana leaned forward slightly to connect her lips to Quinn’s. In the same movement, Quinn pulled lightly on her hips to get her to sink lower onto the couch. “You’re totally trying to top me again,” Santana sing-songed.

“Don’t pretend you don’t like being on the bottom.”

Santana hooked her leg around Quinn’s, trapping it. She flipped the two of them over so that Santana was now on top. “A Kari warrior is never on the bottom!” She let out a war cry that had Quinn giggling beneath her at the sheer silliness of the moment.

They kissed, Santana moving slowly and taking her time, until she felt that all too familiar sensation pooling in her belly, and she remembered that they hadn’t yet had make-up sex, and then she remembered why. “We can’t do this,” Santana said, trying to pull back. Quinn wouldn’t let her go. She was kissing her in that way, and Santana had trouble remembering why exactly she shouldn’t give in.

“You’re on your-,”

Quinn pulled her back down on top of her. “Then let me,” she husked, her hand slipping underneath the happily yielding waistband of Santana’s wari rain…whatever. A soft groan escaped her lips. “You know…,” Quinn’s teeth got a hold of her lips, and her fingers were teasing the tender skin of her hips. “I don’t like not,”

Quinn tugged lightly on her underwear, so the thin cloth slipped in between Santana’s folds, brushing against her most sensitive spot. “I guess we’ve found the rain.” Santana’s hips jerked, downward. “Recip…,” Quinn thrust upwards so that her hips met Santana’s. “procating.”

“Geez, you’re so wet,” Quinn gushed. Santana nodded, clearly losing the fight. “For me?”

“Ye-yeah.”

“What do you want me to do, Santana?”

Quinn’s words returned Santana’s focus. “Unh unh,” Santana said, at the same time she pulled Quinn’s teasing hand from her waistband, and reached for the other before Quinn could figure out what she was doing. She pinned her hands above her head. Santana was sure the position was probably a little uncomfortable, but she didn’t hear Quinn complaining about it. Actually, Quinn looked up at her kind of fearfully, and Santana didn’t really know why until she realized how intently she was staring down at Quinn. Right…back it up a little Santana, she reminded herself.

“It’s not about what you get to do, Quinn,” she taunted, teasing. She kept reminding herself to not look down at Quinn so fiercely, but she couldn’t seem to look away from her. “It is what this young, virile, warrior will allow you to do in order to please your mistress.”

“Should you have used virile?” Quinn questioned.

Santana pulled back an inch, not enough to let Quinn go, but just to give her some room. “What’s wrong with virile?”

“It’s a male adjective.”

“It means having a strong sex drive, strength, and vigor, which is perfectly apropos in this situation.”

“In relation to a male.”

“No, just in general. Implied relation to a male does not mean a literal relation to a male.”

“I’m almost certain it’s _literally_ in relation to a male. Like ‘vir’ _means_ male.

“Gah, are we really having this conversation right now?”

“It’s not my fault that you didn’t pay enough attention in English. Guess we know why I had the higher SAT scores!”

“A Kari warrior knows not of this SAT that you talk about, nor will it allow such back talk from a common citizen! Hush now, until I command you to speak!”

Santana let Quinn’s hands go so that she could beat on her chest. After ascertaining that Quinn wasn’t wearing one of her favorite shirts, she decided to rip it off, which wasn’t as easy as it looked on television, but she persevered, and the shirt ended up as scraps on the floor. “That was kind of hot,” Quinn said, flustered.

“Kind of?” Santana demanded. She would have attempted to rip the bra, too, but Quinn was really fond of this one, so she just roughly pulled down her shoulders, just enough to expose skin, but otherwise leaving it on. Santana’s face lowered, to lick at her breasts. “A kari warrior takes no prisoners!”

Santana bit roughly on her exposed nipple. Quinn gasped, them moaned, then repeated, when Santana did the same thing to the other breast. Santana never really gave Quinn’s breasts the attention that they deserved, before, so she decided to lathe them with some love and affection right now. She decided it was a Kari thing. She made up a scenario, as she alternated with biting, and sucking, flicking her tongue, and circling it around the pink, puckered skin, kneading the flesh roughly, and softly cupping it, and lowering her face in the crevice and motor boating it, which caused Quinn to giggle, until she bit down on her left nipple, and brought about a scream.

Santana knew how aroused Quinn was, but Quinn wasn’t going to ask her to do something about it, and Santana wouldn’t have, even if she’d ask, because she was having too much fun above ground at the moment. She was having fun, she realized. Flat out fun. Don’t get her wrong, sex was always enjoyable, but this was silly, and ridiculous, and just fun. It was a huge turn on for her, to hear Quinn’s moans mixed in with peals of unashamed laughter.

She sucked dark circles onto Quinn’s breasts, and told her it was the ancient Kari fertility mark. She scratched ancient symbols into the most sensitive part of Quinn’s stomach, causing her to burst into a fit of giggles, that Santana quieted by burying her knee in Quinn’s center.

“Can I touch you?” Quinn questioned, timidly.

Although Santana had long since released her hands, Quinn had surprisingly left them resting overhead, keeping herself from touching Santana by digging them tightly into the arm of the couch. Santana tilted her shoulder in imperial acquiesce. “I’ll allow it.”

Quinn’s hands started in her hair, lightly caressing the hairs at the back of her scalp, running a finger along her neck. As her touch sent little shivers down Santana’s body, Santana let more of her body touch Quinn’s, and Quinn was tugging at Santana’s bra, freeing her breasts. Once exposed, she let their bare chests brush against each other again, initiating a new smoldering kiss. As it intensified, Quinn couldn’t seem to help herself. Her hands traced their way down Santana’s spine, and made their way to her front. Santana panted out a quick, “I’ll allow you to fuck me now,” before Quinn’s hand could disappear into her underwear. This caused both of them to laugh, even as Quinn’s fingers slipped into Santana.

Wanting to maintain as much control as possible, Santana started to move her hips, bringing them down to meet Quinn’s fingers, setting the rhythm. The climb was slow building. A mountain, as opposed to a little hill. She felt Quinn fall over, even without being touched intimately, and continued to ride her fingers, rotating her hips to allow them to go as deep as possible. Quinn had given up on trying to control it, and seemed to be content with just letting Santana do her thing. Santana decided to get loud. And ridiculous. “This is how the Kari gather the rain. Do you want me to make it rain! Tell me you want my rain!”

This, of course, was said with a straight face, and in between Santana’s happy noises. “Yeah, I know you like this. You like this fierce, deadly, deadly, rain-warrior ummm…right.”

Quinn almost didn’t want Santana to ever orgasm, because seriously, what could be any greater than her geeky, obnoxious, beautiful, and sexy wife riding her, and talking about bringing the rain and huffing out made up rain chants? They were both laughing when her orgasm hit, and it took Santana by surprise. She collapsed down on top of Quinn, burying her face in her breasts.

“San?” Quinn questioned after a minute passed and Santana hadn’t come up for air. Santana shook her head. Quinn shook her. “San?” Quinn felt moisture fall on her chest. “Are you crying?” Quinn questioned in surprise.

Santana refused to look up. “No,” she sniffed.

“You’re crying!”

Santana waited to hear Quinn teasing her at her revelation, but she didn’t. She just held her closer to her, a hand moving up to gently stroke her hair.

* * *

“I’ve never had silly sex before,” Quinn marveled. She wrapped some noodles around the fork and waited for Santana to open her mouth before she carefully placed the food inside. “I suggested it once to the Professor.” Santana couldn’t help the scowl-pout that mention of that man always gave her. Not that she was thrilled about any of Quinn’s past loves, but she held a special place of hate for this old geezer that preyed on barely legal teenagers. She blamed Russell for that; Quinn had daddy complex written all over her, but then again Santana had never wanted for attention from her dad, and had still gone around trying to screw her way straight so she couldn’t blame him too much.

Quinn had another spoonful ready. “I presented it to him like a psychological experiment. He still didn’t go for it.” Quinn managed to get a little of the sauce on Santana’s lips. She quickly licked it off. “He said that no man wants to hear laughter around the vicinity of his penis.”

“Maybe not insecure fucks,” Santana spat. Quinn smiled at her jealousy. “I didn’t think that you were laughing at my sexual ability, just then. I know you were laughing because it was funny. Bet you never thought you’d have sex with a Kari rain-warrior.”

“I don’t even know what that is.”

“And you never will,” Santana joked. “Are you going to eat?”

“In a minute. Right now, I’m feeding my…what is it again?”

“Kari rain-warrior.”

“I’m feeding my Kari rain-warrior. You realize you are a geek, right? Like full on, complete and total geek?”

“Geeks don’t get laid. I’ve never had that problem.”

“You know, thinking about it, I bet this is probably what sex with Sam would have been like. Only he would have been in blue paint and speaking Klingon the whole time.”

“Na’vi,” Santana corrected. “Klingon is from Star Trek. Na’vi is from Avatar.”

“You’re kind of proving my point, San.”

“Don’t be jealous. And why are we discussing how Sam would have sex?”

Quinn hummed instead of answering. “Do you mind taking me to work tomorrow? It’s supposed to rain.”

“No problem,” Santana said. “I’m off tomorrow and Thursday, anyway, so it shouldn’t be a problem.”

“You’re off? How’re you off?”

“A project is being rushed so Paulianne wants the teams working on it pretty much 24-7. I drew the short straw so I got stuck with the weekend, but I should be off in time for our date on Saturday; unless you had planned a whole day thing.” Santana suddenly looked worried. “You didn’t want to do a whole day thing, did you?”

“Our date?”

“You didn’t forget did you?”

“No, of course not! No, I didn’t plan…that. What time will you be off?”

“5:00, hopefully. I can go in really early to make sure that I am off by then.”

“Okay.”

Santana grinned. “So what’re we doing? Where are you taking me?”

Quinn smiled blandly. “It’s a surprise.”

Santana smirked. “You have no idea, do you?”

Quinn’s eyebrow rose. “You’ll just have to wait and see.”


	13. The First Date

Quinn hadn’t forgotten that she was supposed to be taking Santana out on a date. It was just that some really serious things had happened in between her asking Santana if she wanted to go on one and now that…okay, she forgot. But a few days ago, she thought that she had irrefutably screwed up their relationship, and that her marriage was over, so it was kind of understandable. Besides, it was only Wednesday. She had plenty of time to figure out what to do. Thursday, she didn’t have as much, but she still had some time left. Friday she was panicky. She had never designed a date before. The old standby would be dinner and a movie, but that seemed kind of…lame. And Santana would make sure to let her know that.

Okay, so she needed something big. Parachuting? Maybe if they were doing an all-day date but by the time Santana got off work it would be an impossibility. Figure skating? That seemed more like a winter thing. Ferry ride on a dinner boat to George’s Island? Quinn put that in the maybe category.

“What would you think of a date that consisted of a mani/pedi, some power shopping, and a fancy dinner afterwards?”

“I would think he was gay.”

“We kind of are; well she is.”

“Oh, right,” Connie went back to fluffing her hair. “It doesn’t really sound like a date, it sounds more of something you’d do with your girl friend. Not like your girlfriend, girlfriend, but your platonic best friend girl friend. It sounds like a pre-date, not the date.”

“Oh,” Quinn said, frowning.

She thought back to past dates that she’d been on. Dating in high school consisted of Bredstix and making out, so that obviously was a no. What was the best date that she had ever had? She remembered going out with a guy named Davis (first name), and she had had a really good time on that date; she had certainly not stopped laughing, anyway. She tried to remember why, and ended up blushing when she remembered the real reason: she and Santana had been texting throughout the whole date. Now that she remembered it correctly, Davis hadn’t enjoyed the date half as much; he didn’t call her again.

Maybe Santana would like to go out dancing. Santana loved to dance. That idea was quickly vetoed, however, because going to a club was just inviting a fight because some dumb guy would most likely try to dance with one of them, and one of them would go off and Quinn didn’t care how impossible it was, she wanted them to get to their reception without another fight. So no straight clubs. What about a gay one? Santana would probably get a thrill out of seeing Quinn in one, and…Quinn suddenly realized how much of a very bad idea it would be. I mean, sure, in theory all she had to do was avoid the _Milky Way_ and she wouldn’t run into Kelsi, and the odds of her ending up at the same bar as Jenna _,_ well, she didn’t know what the odds were, but they hadn’t been in her favor recently…and besides, Santana had to be up for work early the next morning, and by the way, what did her wife _do_?

Santana had double majored in psychology and English in undergrad, and then gotten a master’s in fine arts from Boston College. There was just so little that one could do with a M.F.A. most of which didn’t pay that much. She couldn’t say that she didn’t care about how much Santana made, but she didn’t care _that_ much, and again, she and Santana’s lifestyles were comparable, so she was sure they made around the same amount financially, but…she made a note to just check the statement the first time Santana’s direct deposit came in. Problem: solved. Except that would only solve the mystery of Santana’s employment, and did nothing to help her figure out their date.

She realized that she would only get credit for creativity, and if it was too cheesy it just was a no go. Besides, she wanted it to be special. Once she actually started thinking about it, she was almost certain that Santana had never been _asked_ on a date before. She was always the one who took the reins, so to speak. There wasn’t anything wrong with that, but Santana had been the one to initiate things again between Quinn and Santana, Santana had been the one to break the silence after they had gone that long period without talking, Santana had proposed, and Santana had been the one that had reached out after their argument. Sure Quinn didn’t know how exactly to navigate this relationship thing that they were doing at the moment, and it was hard for her to feel secure in it, but she certainly wasn’t making Santana feel very secure either. Somehow she felt like this date would either serve that purpose, or have the exact opposite effect.

Now Quinn was really feeling pressured. She needed this date to be good, for that reason alone. So if conventional was out, and she didn’t want the date to be too cheesy, what if she just decided to go for ridiculous? Santana would mock an unintentionally cheesy date, but what about an intentionally cheesy one?

* * *

Santana was heading out of the office at exactly 4:15. With all the right lights, she would make it back to her apartment by 5:00, and would be ready to go by 6:00. Before she got into her car she texted Quinn **‘Leaving now _. Be ready by 6:00’._**

No sooner had she hit send than her phone started ringing. Santana answered it as soon as she heard the chime. “I want you to know that I had to promise to wine and dine my boss to get off early, today, so this better be worth it. We might have a third wheel on our date, too,” Santana chuckled.

“How would you like a two week all-expense paid trip to Tucson, Arizona?”

It was immediate: Santana stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, and with her eyes darting around to scan the crowd around her she planted her back against the wall of the nearest building. “No,” she answered stiffly.

“No? I didn’t even give you a date.”

“It doesn’t matter; whenever it is, the answer is no. I just got married.”

“Which no one told you to do.”

“I don’t need to be _told_ anything. My answer is no. I can’t just disappear for two weeks, and what, say what? What is a believable enough story to be away from your spouse for two weeks?”

“Business trip?”

Santana barked out a laugh. “She barely believes me when I say I have to work on weekends, so yeah, she’ll for sure buy that. I’ve given an answer, and I am hanging up now!”

“Your flight leaves August 27th.”

It sounded a lot like an order, which was something Santana had never received before. “That is smack dab in the middle of my honeymoon, so it has now moved from a no to a hell no.”

“I wouldn’t call you if-,”

“How about we leave it right there. I don’t know why you’re calling. I don’t want to know why you’re calling. Whatever you’re about to say, I don’t want to hear it. I _just_ got married. In 5 weeks’ time we’re having our reception, and after that we’re going on our honeymoon where we are probably going to spend 11 out of the 14 days that we are on vacation arguing with each other, but those 3 days that we actually get along will be the best 3 days of my existence. Can you say that you will give me the same? I _just_ bought a red bikini the other day, on sale, and when I wear red she can’t keep her hands off of me. If I’m lucky, we won’t even get the chance to _see_ the beach the entire time we’re there. You don’t put out for me, so what makes you think that you can say anything that could possibly compare with that?”

“Bring her to Arizona, then.”

“That sounds like the perfect idea: trade the beach with baby-making views for some desert hotel swimming pool? That sounds just fantastic! And what am I supposed to say when I disappear for hours, maybe days at a time?”

“It’s Arizona and you’re Latina. Claim you have some family there.”

“Okay, _wow_. You really just pushed me to the exact opposite direction. Good-,”

“August 27th. You’re talking about a _vacation_ , Santana. You can take a vacation at any time. I’m asking you to keep your priorities in order.”

“It’s not a vacation, it’s my honeymoon. My _honey moon_. I have my priorities in order, Colson. My wife, my marriage, my and her general well-being, _those_ are my priorities. Out of respect, I do not wish to hang up on you, but as far as I’m concerned this conversation is over, and it would make me extremely happy if you were able to forget my number as well.”

Santana listened for a few seconds, realized that the caller wasn’t going to say anything else, and then hung up. She checked the screen to make sure the call really was ended, and saw the missed text from her wife: **_Great, see you then. Dress comfortably_** _._ The second message, sent almost 10 minutes later as if Quinn couldn’t figure out whether or not to send it said, **_Can’t wait_**.

Santana gripped her phone a little tighter in her hand. She gave one last look at the crowd before she threw her phone into her purse, pushed off from the wall, and finished the walk to her car.

* * *

Quinn’s Prius pulled to a stop outside of Santana’s apartment at 5:40, for once getting a parking spot in a decent place, right near the front doors. She was parked on the opposite side of where Santana’s apartment was, but still she stared up at the building as if maybe Santana would appear in one of the windows. She got out of the car to light a cigarette, watching as the tobacco and paper burned between her fingers. Quinn didn’t smoke all that often, but she always had a pack of cigarettes stuffed down into her purse, and she still did this sometimes. Lit a cigarette and went through the motions. She found it calming, and right now she was nervous. She was nervous without really knowing why she was nervous. So what if it was their first date? It wasn’t like if she messed things up there wouldn’t be another: they were married. Whoever heard of someone getting a divorce over a bad date?

It’s just that she really, really wanted this to go over well.

She had been standing against her car for five minutes when she got a text from Santana that said: **b _abe, almost ready, so why don’t you come upstairs and do your worrying on the couch? Mad Men is on_.**

Quinn gave a laugh because, of course, and she turned off her car, put out the cigarette, and headed upstairs. For some reason it felt like she’d be intruding if she opened the door herself, so she knocked, and Santana answered it without even looking at her. “I’ll just be a sec,” she said, disappearing back into the bathroom.

Quinn nodded, and sat down on the couch. The TV was on to an old episode of _Mad Men_ and while she had never got into the show while it was on, it gave her something to do other than fidget, while she waited for Santana. “How was work?” Quinn questioned.

She imagined Santana’s smile because she couldn’t see it. “Work. I never really thought about it before, but it’s kind of creepy being in a big building when it’s mostly empty. Lucky for me Paulianne isn’t the only 9-5 non-conformist in the building.”

“Are you ever going to tell me what it is you actually do?”

Santana popped her head into the living room. “I make money.” 

Quinn quirked a brow at the less than detailed job description. “You’re not a stripper are you?”

“A stripper, Quinn? Really? No, I’m not a stripper. If I was you would know because I’d always pay in cash and all of my money would be greasy.”

“Why would…oh...ew…Santana! Seriously! What do you do? _You_ know I’m a financial analyst.”

“Which is the most boring thing ever, by the way.”

“That it may be, but you know what I do, and I don’t even have an inkling.”

“I told you, before. I essentially pick out invitations all day.”

“What does it say in your job description?”

Santana considered Quinn’s words. It took a minute for her to work it out. “I coordinate information, research, analyze, and put forth a finished product.” She nodded when she finished talking; she seemed proud of herself after she said those words.

“Who do you work for?”

This question took a little more consideration on Santana’s part. In the end she gave up. “Honestly, I can’t tell you,” she finally said. “Not until you have a sit down with a big guy, in a cheap suit, who has no sense of humor at all, and I really mean none.”

“What does that mean? Are you a spy?” Quinn was hugely upset, but slightly turned on at the prospect of it at the same time. “That’s it, isn’t it S? You’re a spy?”

“I am not a spy,” Santana said confidently. “As interesting as that would be. Nor am I a ninja. I am merely bound by contract to my confidentiality which unfortunately does not extend to my wife as well.”

Quinn looked worried now. “That sounds serious.”

Santana shook her head. “Not at all, just annoying cause I’m so good at what I do that sometimes I just want to brag and I can’t. So how do I look?”

“You-,” and Quinn paused because honestly this woman looked beautiful. She had dressed casually like Quinn instructed, just jeans and a nice blouse. Her hair and make-up were simplistic, but she looked absolutely gorgeous. If possible she looked even better than she did when she was all dolled up.

Santana merely winked at her. “You looked pretty hot yourself, Q,” she complimented. “So where are you taking me?”

“It’s a surprise,” Quinn said, her eyes still on Santana. 

Santana sauntered over towards Quinn. “Maybe if you’re lucky, later I’ll let you unwrap all the shiny paper and see what’s inside.”

Quinn laughed, then noticed that Santana wasn’t wearing heels, which meant that she got to enjoy being taller than her wife, for once.

“So I got you something,” Quinn said, when they were in the car.

Santana eagerly held her hands out in front of her. “Oooh, what?”

Quinn reached into the backseat and pulled out the bag she’d gotten from Walgreens. She handed Santana a Kodak disposable camera. Santana looked at the square box in disappointment. “This isn’t flowers.”

Quinn smiled. “No, it’s a camera.”

Santana flipped the box around in her hand. “I didn’t know they even still made these.”

“Well, they do, and I thought that we could use them to take pictures tonight.”

“Okay,” Santana said, slowly, “but we both have far better cameras than this.”

“Remember, once upon a time before digital cameras came around and ruined everything, you actually had to pay attention to what you were doing because you didn’t know what you were shooting until you got home and saw the pictures, and then you realized your thumb was in every shot, but every once in a while you got that one perfect picture?”

“Babe, I really think that that was before we were born.”

Quinn rolled her eyes. “Just go with it.”

Santana smiled. “Alright,” she said. She removed the camera from the box and the silver wrapping and took a shot of Quinn. “As you wish.”

They drove for about 20 minutes before Quinn parked her car in front of the valet stand in front of _The Meadow_ one of the swankiest restaurants in town. It was a 4 star restaurant that celebrities and dignitaries ate at, and had been featured on _The Food Network._ Santana looked from the cheap disposable camera that she held in her hands, down at her tastefully chosen yet glaringly understated outfit.

“Wait here,” Quinn said with a smile. She got out of the car, circled around it, and opened the door for Santana. She extended a hand to her wife, and helped her out of the car.

One of the valets, who was just finishing up with another guest, walked up to them. “Miss, if you would have waited I would have been more than happy to have helped you out of the car.”

Quinn gave him a winning smile. “It’s no problem, whatsoever.” She gave him the keys, got her ticket, and started to lead Santana toward the restaurant entrance, only to walk right past it. They walked for about a block, further, before they came to their true destination: _Blanks Arcade_. Santana gave a look at the building in suspicion, until Quinn actually pulled her inside and handed her a cup full of tokens. Santana’s eyes lit up, and she actually gave a squeal before kissing Quinn on the cheek and looking for her first game to play.

_Blanks_ was like Chuck ‘E Cheese’s, just better. Better (and by better greasier, crispier, and more pepperoni) pizza, better games, better prizes. It turned out that Santana was really good at arcade games. Like insanely good. Like if she were this good in Vegas, they would kick her out and ask her to never come back. Within 10 minutes of checking out the machines that issued tickets, she figured out the ones that had the best ticket to coin ratio, and dominated on every game she played. She stayed on a machine right until the point that the parents would come up to complain about her hogging it, and then she pulled Quinn on to something else.

Santana easily and greedily collected her tickets, but didn’t just play the ticket games. She played the regular arcade games as well, including Dance Dance which Santana hogged for 20 minutes, but got away with it because in-between challenging Quinn to competitions, she invited random kids to face off against her, too. Quinn ordered pizza, and when theirs was ready they took a quick break, and both of them took a few pictures with their cameras. Quinn captured (or at least she thinks she did) a picture of Santana’s eyes rolling back at the first taste of pizza. Santana captured the mom that was standing behind Quinn, and the girlfriend of one of the guys’ whose kid was playing.

After about an hour, Quinn broke the news that it was time to go, and the pout Santana gave was not unlike the one the 7-year-old girl beside them was giving her mother at similar news. Santana quickly snapped a picture of that, before she went off to cash in her tickets. Santana spent five minutes feeding her tickets into the ticket counting machine while a bunch of dazed kids just watched. Quinn moved over to the prize wall, eyeing which cheap plush animal she wanted Santana to get for her when she realized that Santana was done feeding her tickets to the machine. She watched her wife stand up, but instead of coming over to her, she made a circuit of the arcade. Quinn was wondering if Santana was going to start playing another game that she’d have to drag her away from, when she stopped beside a little boy who was wearing glasses, had braces on his legs, and was maybe 8 or 9 years old.

Santana whispered something in the little boy’s ear before she handed him her ticket voucher. The kid stared at the piece of paper for a long second before he wrapped himself around Santana’s legs. The thing that was most surprising about the transaction was that Santana didn’t seem surprised or desperate to push him off. She gave him a smile, returned the hug, and made a show of turning around to give Quinn the opportunity to pretend that she didn’t see that. Quinn decided to take it, and decided to wait for Santana outside. 

“I didn’t see anything I liked,” Santana said with a sneer when she made her way back to Quinn. “It’s all kid’s stuff.”

Quinn chuckled. “Next time we’ll go to Dave & Buster’s instead.”

“Damn right,” Santana returned, failing to sound properly indignant. “Ooh, but when we go we need to invite Mercedes, because she’s a fun drunk.”

“I’ll put it on the list,” Quinn said. “That reminds me. What’d you do to Xavier?”

Santana frowned. “Who?”

“Mercedes’ now ex.”

“I already told you, Quinn. I didn’t do anything to him. So where to next?”

Next was laser tag. Unlike _Blanks_ the laser tag center was geared more for adults. It took place in one half of an old ware house and was set up to mimic a military training ground. The place, _Dark Operatives,_ and had to be the singularly coolest laser tag center she had ever been to. Quinn and Santana were on the same team, and they solidified, for anyone that doubted, just what the poor fools at McKinley had to learn the hard way: that they were unstoppable as a team. They played two games, and in both instances they won by a wide margin. On the other side of the building, they had a glow in the dark rock wall, and a rock obstacle course that reminded both of them of the Super Aggro Crag from _Guts_.

“I don’t think this is really fair,” Santana said as they waited their turn. She eyed the third in their party, a guy who looked in his mid-20s, and appeared to have all the confidence of the band dorks of McKinley. “I mean, we both know that I’m going to cream the two of you. It’s not even like a competition. It’s like if Zizes was running against Usain Bolt.”

Quinn was jumping in place, ready for the race to start. “We’ll see!”

Santana snuck a picture at the attendant who was helping the group in front of them into their harness, rewound the reel, and took a picture of Quinn, too, when she wasn’t smiling. It was the 8th picture she had taken, but only the second that she’d actually taken of Quinn.

Santana slid the camera back into her pocket and turned to the 20 something. “What’s your name kid?”

“Jacob,” the kid answered, his voice predictably shaky. Santana rolled her eyes because of course it was.

“Jacob, I love that you came out here today, but the sad fact of the matter is that you’re about to seriously get schooled. Can you handle that?”

To both Santana and Quinn’s surprises, the guy smiled confidentially. “Well, we’ll see when we get to the top, won’t we?”

Santana pointed at him, turning to Quinn. “I like this guy! You’re both totally going to be eating my dust, but I like him!” She decided to snap a quick picture of him before he could object.

A buzzer went off, signaling the start of the next race, and everyone waiting in line or hanging around turned to watch the three make it up the mountain. From where Santana, Quinn, and Jacob were standing they couldn’t actually see the course, but they could see the people before them’s progression. The three, though not athletic in the least, seemed to be evenly matched and were making their way up the mountain and through the course at nearly the same speed.

Jacob watched how intently Santana was studying the movements, and he shook his head. “If you’re trying to memorize the course, there’s no point in that. They change it after every run through.”

Santana merely shrugged. “Doesn’t matter, I don’t need to memorize the course. You’re still going down!”

“Shoes untied,” he said in answer. Santana waited a whole minute before she actually looked down to check. Quinn softly snickered.

The current three finished, and she, Santana, and Jacob were fit into their harnesses and lined up at the gate. _Going_ down _,_ Santana mouthed. Quinn unbuttoned two of the buttons on her blouse. The buzzer went off. Quinn and Jacob were gone before Santana could remember what she was supposed to be doing.

“Cheater!” Santana called. She scrambled down her path, anxious to catch up with Jacob and her wife. Jacob was right in that it wasn’t the exact same footpath that the group before them had followed. It was different, and somewhat difficult. She couldn’t go as fast as she liked, because she had to make sure of the footing, but she figured that she’d rather have a few bumped thighs and arms rather than let Quinn win. She cast a look at the lane to the right of her, surprised to see that Jacob was actually setting a decent pace. Santana watched him for a few more seconds, but then almost missed it when the path jutted suddenly to the left, so she went back to focusing on her own race.

She saw Quinn start to slow down about three-fourths of the way up. Jacob, too, seemed to have some trouble getting over a large rock mound. Santana easily got over her own obstacle, sidestepping a booby trap a few seconds later. She took a risky chance that required balancing on a thin ledge and hoisting herself up rather than going a round about way, which pushed her ahead. Realizing that she’d pretty much won, she slowed just enough to reach her activator a few seconds before Quinn, and then Jacob.

“Now _that’s_ how they do it up in the heights!” Santana crowed.

“You only won because I’ve got a bad back,” Quinn grumped.

“You’ve got a bad attitude, Fabray-Lopez.” She patted Jacob on the back. “Nice effort,” she complimented in a non-sarcastic voice. “Are we doing this again?”

Quinn took one look at the line, and shook her head no.

They had desert at a small little café, and sat down at a private seat in the back of the shop. “So have you always lived in Boston?” Quinn questioned.

Santana gave her a look until she caught on. “Oh, no. I grew up in this small town called Lima. It’s in Ohio.”

“Sounds _charmant_.”

“That’s one way to say it. What about you?”

“My family lived in Dayton until I was 10, and then we moved to Fairbrook Township for three years, before we moved to Lima.”

“Wait, you’re from Lima, too?”

“Yes.” 

“Whoa, small world! I can’t believe that we never ran into each other before! What brought you to Boston?”

“I went to Yale for my undergraduate years, and thought it would be ironic to go to Harvard for grad school, and since my two best friends already lived here, I thought, hey, it’d be perfect. What about you?”

“A good friend of mine from high school decided to finish her degree up at MIT, and one of my favorite English professors at NYU went to Boston College, so I thought it was worth looking into. I thought I’d only be here until I finished up my degree, but I liked it so much I just never left.”

“So you enjoy living in Boston?”

Santana nodded. “I do. Best decision I ever made, moving here.”

“So what kind of work are you employed in, now?”

Santana gave a kind of half laugh, picking up Quinn’s hand and holding it. “Do you know that’s an American thing?”

“What is?”

“Associating people based on their jobs. We may as well walk around carrying business cards in our pockets with our name, job title, and pay grade on them. Back when I was on the dating scene, one beer in, I guarantee you that was the question that was asked.”

“When were you on the dating scene?” Quinn questioned, because somehow she had never imagined Santana doing this before. Sure when they weren’t having sex (and even if they were), Quinn never thought of Santana actually dating anyone, just sleeping with them.

Santana shrugged. “Every now and then, I’d get lonely and think about having a real relationship. I dated Dani. I dated this one girl, Josie, for two months. There were a few others, but I did date around. Back in college ‘what are you majoring in’ was the after first beer question, and then ‘what do you intend to do’ was the second. Whenever I said I was an English major, you could kind of see people check out of the conversation, and so I kind of stopped telling people.”

“So is that why you’re being so secretive about your career?”

Santana smiled into her wife’s eyes. “I told you why I won’t tell you. I’m under contract at the moment. Once that’s lifted, then sure,” Santana gave a half shrug. “Honestly, I figured you would just look at the bank statement. If I wanted it to be a secret, I wouldn’t have opened a joint account with you. But, let me ask, if you knew that I was like the store manager of Burger King or something like that would you have still agreed to marry me?”

Quinn was surprised at the question, merely because of the fact that she had agreed to it so readily suggested that she would have. She probably wouldn’t rush to tell people that that’s what her wife did for a living, but she probably would have still said yes, and deep down would have enjoyed the fact that she made a lot more money than Santana. “San, you forget that I have absolutely no idea what you do, and yet we’re married anyway. And hey, you’ve always been all labels and bling, and I bet everyone who you dated, talked to, or had sex with, was someone attractive so you can’t say you’re not a bit superficial yourself.”

“True. The labels and such, I don’t honestly care as much anymore. Don’t get me wrong, I love to dress up, and I like things that go sparkle in the night, but I also like to lay around the house in oversized t-shirts and comfortable pants, too.”

“And Kari rain-warrior outfits.”

Santana smiled slyly. “That to. As for the caliber of women I dated, I dated attractive women because I’m an attractive woman. Women who don’t consider themselves as attractive, usually lack the confidence to come up and talk to me, and you should know more than everyone else, how big of a turn on I think power, and confidence, is.” She winked at her. “We used to get into our biggest fights whenever you took it from me.”

Quinn went back to first date like questions, and they finished up their desserts and got up. When they got back to the car, Quinn hesitated. “So I _did_ get you flowers, and I know that flowers on a date is a little trite, but the ones I got are special. She opened the trunk and carefully removed the box from the florist.

“I have to explain it. The gladiolus symbolizes strength, because the two of us are going to need to be strong to survive, well, us. The alstromeria represents devotion and friendship. Too, its leaves grow upside down, which I think is perfect because it’s kind of like how we’re both ass backwards, trying to work our way around. The chain of white clover means ‘I promise’. The daffodil is for new birth. The ranuculus means that I’m dazzled by your charms, the rose stems are a symbol of hope, and last, but not least, this one, the ornithogalum, or the Star of Bethlehem, is for reconciliation, which I hope we will always do.”

Quinn suddenly looked vulnerable, as she handed the flowers to Santana, who stared down at them as if they were a foreign mass.

“They’re beautiful, Quinn. I love them.”

The look changed instantly on her face at the words. “I’m glad.”

The ride back to Santana’s was spent in comfortable silence. Quinn was lucky for the second time today, and had a front row parking space. She parked the car and the two lingered, still playing that this was had been a regular first date.

“So I had a nice time tonight,” Santana said.

Quinn smiled. “Yeah?”

Santana nodded. “Yeah. Are you going to walk me up to my door?”

Quinn nodded eagerly, jumping out to open the door for Santana. She offered her her hand. “I had a good time, too. You think maybe we can do this again?”

“I think that can be arranged,” Santana decided. “Only I get to choose this time.”

Quinn let out a breath. “Oh, thank God! I don’t think I would know what to do with another date.”

They made it up to Santana’s door. Santana hesitated, toying with her keys. Quinn took that as her cue. She lunged forward, pinning Santana against the door of her apartment. Santana responded back just as vigorously, the hand that wasn’t holding her flowers, reaching for Quinn, pulling her in closer. Her hands were in the process of unbuttoning Quinn’s buttons, when she paused. “W-wait, we have to stop,” Santana got out, panting. Quinn let space enter between them, but she still placed kisses on Santana’s lips. “Really?” she purred. “Why?”

Santana could feel her eyes rolling back in her head, but she nodded. “I don’t put out on the first date,” she said seriously.

Quinn had to ask just to be sure that that was actually what she said. “Are you serious?”

Santana nodded. “Yea,” she whispered, trying not to give into the feel of Quinn’s lips doing magical, magical things to her. “I…um…gotta give them something to want to come back for,” she responded. She tried to take a step back, realized that her back was at the door, so she patted Quinn on the shoulder. “Babe you got to step back.”

Quinn grunted, but she removed her lips from Santana’s, and they both instantly felt the loss. “I still get to spend the night, though, right?”

Santana looked at her like she was an idiot. “Duh.”


	14. All I see is you

Quinn wasn’t sure why, but she hesitated on the doorstep of Santana’s apartment not wanting to cross over the threshold. This evening had just been kind of perfect; it had reminded her of high school Santana, and high school Quinn, not when they were battling for dominance, but when they had spent time with each other for no other reason than because they wanted to spend time with each other. When their lives had practically revolved around their friendship, and they had spent every other weekend at each other’s homes.

When Santana had brought up that they had once been really good friends, she had scoffed because it was so easy to remember the bad: how Santana hadn’t been there for her during her pregnancy, how she had gotten wrapped up in Brittany and Quinn was suddenly on the outside, how Quinn had sold her out to Sue in order to be made cheerleading captain, and had gotten pregnant by the guy that Santana had been sleeping with at the time.

But that’d only been half of the story. The other half was the fact that Santana had been there for her on the day that Quinn had found out she was pregnant in the first place, and although she went AWOL for most of the pregnancy, she was there for Quinn the day that she had had to give up Beth. Quinn also remembered that when she was hurt and feeling alone in New York, Santana had been there to remind her that she wasn’t. And (Rachel had been the one to tell her this one drunken night after a performance) after her accident Santana had been at the hospital almost every waking hour to hold her hand until she was finally forced by Dr. Lopez to go home and get some sleep, which explained why she wasn’t there when she woke up.

Quinn would have blamed graduation for the change between them, but it she were being truly honest, she still found herself coming to Lima, (or flitting off to New York to save Rachel), for no other reason than the chance to see Santana again. It wasn’t graduation that changed things, but the sex. After years of teasing, of crude comments, and sexual innuendo’s, Quinn had finally gotten fed up enough with the train of assholes that seemed to be attracted to her to be vulnerable enough to be open to the idea of her and another girl, and Santana had been available, and willing. She quickly found out that the rumors of Santana’s sexual prowess weren’t hyped up. It had been phenomenal, exceptional-life altering might have been a bit much, but it might have been that, too.

Hands down it had been the best sex of Quinn’s life, and then they didn’t talk for a few months after because Yale was demanding and Santana was just moving into her life in New York, and maybe Quinn had had a minor moment of gay panic. None of that really mattered because at graduation they had reconnected, and it seemed that the key to their friendship was Quinn dating obtuse and simpering men, and Santana’s life revolving around Brittany. Since both things with her and Puck, and Santana and Brittany, were ‘open’, they had continued to have sex. Quinn was certain that the only way a long distance relationship with Puck _could_ work was if sex was off the table, because Puck was never the kind of guy that phone conversations, emails, texts, and Skype were enough for, and the reality is that they could only see each other a few days every other month (if they were lucky) because you couldn’t skip the military like you could skip class, and Yale didn’t really give you the option of skipping class.

So a casual sexual relationship with Santana started up again. Sophomore and junior year they were still friends. They talked via text, email, and Skype about everything, except each other. Senior year they were still friends. When Quinn finished at Yale she moved to New York because so many of her friends lived there, and because she found a pretty nice paid internship at an investment firm in the city. The fact that it put her and Santana in the same city for the first time in four years? Purely coincidental. That was proven in August when Santana packed up her life in New York, and followed Brittany to Boston. It wasn’t really until then that their relationship went from buddies who sometimes fucked to fuck buddies.

And now here they were, married, and had just gone on their first date ever, and Quinn couldn’t shake the feeling that once the day was over, things would go back to the way they’d been lately, and she didn’t want that. She didn’t want _this_ Santana and _this_ Quinn to disappear because she liked how they were together.

“You know what we should do?” Quinn questioned, taking the flowers from Santana’s hand, to put them into water. “We should stay up all night, and watch movies, paint each other’s nails, and eat junk food like we used to do when we were in high school.” Quinn turned just in time to see a smile forming on Santana’s face. She cocked her head. “What’s the smile for?” she questioned.

Santana shrugged. “Can’t I just smile?”

Quinn wandered into the kitchen instead of responding, sitting the flowers on the counter while she went searching through the cabinets. “We can watch RENT. Didn’t you say I’m grossly overdue for it?”

Quinn felt a hand wrap around her waist before Santana pulled her into her arms. She smiled as she felt her head rest on her shoulder. “That sounds amazingly wonderful, but I can’t, tonight. I have to be up for work in the morning.”

“Oh yeah, that’s right. You have to be up for your mysterious job.”

She felt Santana’s lips come in contact with her neck. “I think you’re building this thing up so much in your head that you’re going to be terribly disappointed when you finally find out what it is that I do.”

In a voice dripping with both irony and sarcasm she said, “I could never be disappointed in anything that you did. Where do you keep your vases?”

Santana’s lips pressed down lightly against her neck. “I don’t have any.”

Quinn frowned at her oversight; she didn’t want to have to leave the flowers out for the night. She was paranoid that they’d wilt. “I wish I’d known that! I would have brought one over. Why don’t you have a vase?”

Santana shrugged, kissing Quinn again on the neck before she pulled away from her. “I never get any flowers.”

Quinn turned her head to look at her. “Never?”  
Santana leaned against the opposite counter so she could watch Quinn. “The last time I got flowers was from Brittany right before we went to Lesbos.”

That’d been nine years ago. “What about birthdays, Valentine’s Day?” Quinn knew the general disdain that Santana had for the holiday, but the thought of her never getting anything on Valentine’s Day, of no one ever sending her flowers on any occasion, just seemed sad to her. She knew that Santana prided herself on her image of badassery, but Quinn knew, too, that most of it was an act; a way to get through and pretend that she was above it, that things didn’t bother her. Santana had gone on and on about the mixed tape Brittany had (almost) made for her, because it’d been the first Valentine’s Day gift she’d ever gotten outside of the Lollipop grams they used to send each other and the necklace she had bought for herself and had tried to get Puck to pay for.

Santana shrugged in a kind of ‘fuck it’ way. “I don’t exactly date the kind of girls who bring me flowers.”

There had been nothing pointed in her statement, at least Quinn didn’t think there had been, but that didn’t stop her from feeling somewhat guilty. She turned back to the cabinets, finally pulling down Santana’s Big Gulp cup; it’d have to do for now. She filled the cup with water, and picked up the flowers, placing them in the cup, wrapping paper and all. “They should be fine there for tonight, and I’ll get a vase tomorrow. I have one at my place that would be perfect!”

She propped the cup against the counter to make sure that it wouldn’t fall over from the weight of the bouquet. Santana watched for a few seconds before going into the bedroom to change into night clothes which, because of the heat, wasn’t much.

“That’s not fair,” Quinn protested when she saw her. “You can’t say that we can’t sleep together, and then wear _that._ ”

Santana grabbed a fistful of shirt and pulled her into her. “Oh? You’re not planning on sleeping here tonight?” she questioned.

“You know what I mean,” Quinn returned. She took a few minutes to get a better taste of Santana’s lips, but pulled back before things could get too heavy. She didn’t want to start something Santana wasn’t going to finish.

Quinn changed into her own night clothes, and crawled in beside her wife. She started to lay down beside her, but paused. “Santana?”

She looked up. “Yeah, babe?”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Why didn’t I what?”

Quinn struggled with her thoughts. “Ever date the kind of girl who would buy you flowers?”

Santana sighed. “Why are you asking me this?”

“I just want to know,” Quinn responded. She watched Santana’s brown eyes flicker through emotions, as she contemplated the question.

Her eyes seemed to harden, becoming a perfect match for her tone. “Because one night stands don’t usually offer more consideration than getting you off.”

Quinn flinched, but she didn’t back down. “Dani didn’t?”

“Dani wasn’t the flowers kind of girl, no. Maybe if we’d lasted longer. Seriously why are we talking about this? You got me flowers. They’re nice. Actually, they’re beautiful. Why does anything else matter?”

Quinn almost agreed with Santana’s question, and she didn’t really know why she was pursuing it. Maybe because she was just starting to realize how great of a person her wife was, and she was amazed that it had taken her so long to figure it out. And she was angry that everyone else had seemed to be just as clueless as she had been (but then again if there were wiser people out there, Santana would have been married to someone else by now). “You deserve to have flowers, Santana.” Quinn hadn’t meant her voice to sound all hard-edged but she couldn’t help it. She was frustrated. She was frustrated with Santana, because why did she never demand more? And because being frustrated with Santana was a lot easier than being frustrated with herself.

“So why did you never send me any, then?”

Quinn wasn’t expecting Santana to turn the tables on her like that. “That’s not, this isn’t-”

Santana sat up suddenly, tucking her feet beneath her. “Isn’t it, Quinn? Whatever your reason for never sending me flowers, that was everyone else’s reason, too. Is that so impossible to understand? I was a fuck to everyone. Nothing more.”

The feeling of guilt was overwhelming, so Quinn did what she always did, she turned it back on her. “You never sent me flowers either. And the one time you did, you sent me a bill for it.”

Santana nodded. “Yep. So there’s no issue. Q, we were fuck buddies. I’ve had a lot of them over the years, hence no flowers. So, now that we’ve established that, can we please lie down, go to sleep, and dream about what breakfast you’re cooking for me before I go to work tomorrow?”

It was easier to go along with the change in the conversation than to continue down the road that the prior one would lead. Santana had never been _just a fuck_ to her, and she was sure that the other girl knew that, but that revelation led to others, and Quinn just didn’t want to go there, even though she had been the one to initiate the conversation. So, she let the subject change, and protested, “Tomorrow’s my sleep in day!”

Santana shrugged. “Okay sleep in. There’s a Dunkin’ Donuts right across the street from the job, and they’ll serve me no matter what the time.”

“You sound like I neglect you!”

“I would never suggest such a thing. I know you like to sleep in.” Again, Santana didn’t say it in a way that should have made Quinn feel anything, but she was reminded that Santana _did_ get up to make breakfast for her on Saturdays, but Santana had also promised to do so, and Quinn didn’t. “Besides, the earlier I get up, the sooner I get off!”

“How long will you be at work?”

“Until 5:00, most likely. Unless I manage to go in earlier. Why? You cooking something special for dinner tomorrow?” Santana questioned hopefully.

Quinn laughed at the expression on her wife’s face. “Sure _babe_ ,” she said surprisingly. “What do you want?”

“Seriously?” Quinn nodded. “Lasagna!”

She shook her head. “Of course you’d want something that takes 3 ½ hours to cook.”

“You asked, I answered. I’ll be sure to pick up some breadsticks on the way home from work so you won’t have to worry about doing that.”

Quinn quirked an inquisitive eye at this statement. “Why do you like Italian food so much?”

Santana sat up to give Quinn an incredulous look. “Q, that’s crazy talk! 1) Who doesn’t? 2) Seriously, who doesn’t? And 3) what am I _supposed_ to like, and don’t say Mexican.”

“Well-,”

“I’ve never seen you drinking tea and eating crumpets, and I’ve never once seen your mother make a blood pudding, either, and I know your family hails from England.”

“That’s,”

“Different?” Santana questioned with an amused smirk on her face. “How? I was born an American citizen, and so were both of my parents. And just so you know, papi es boricua o puertorriquena y mami es mexicano. Those are two different taste pallets. Papi hates Mexican food, and mom’s not too fond of Puerto Rican food, or ‘soul food’, so sometimes dinners felt like we were going to war, whereas whenever we had Italian food,” Santana spread her arms in supplication, “there was peace for all. Neutral territory.”

Quinn’s lips turned down. “How did I not know that your father was Puerto Rican?”

“Bet you didn’t know that my abuelo was black, either. You should see my uncle Emilio. He’s darker than Jake.”

Quinn studied Santana’s features, as if to get some sort of clue from them. She was ashamed to admit that she never questioned Santana’s background past ‘Hispanic’, and the only reason she knew that she was Mexican (well part Mexican) was because she talked constantly about her ‘Mexican third eye’. She did know that that was a put on, something she had started back in middle school to underhandedly tease their bigoted classmates into being afraid of her. It was like her alter ego ‘Snix’.

“What’s _your_ favorite color?”

Santana gestured wildly. “See: now you understand why I asked you that! It’s amber.”

“Is it really?”

“Yep. Because it looks like honey, and sometimes bugs get trapped in it, and they are perfectly preserved for thousands of years.”

“I always thought your favorite color was black.”

Santana gave Quinn a very serious look. “Black’s not a color, Quinn, it’s the absence of it. Black’s a wave.”

“God, you’re such a smart ass.”

“No, you know what’s a smart ass? An ass that can sit down on a pie and tell you what flavor it is. That’s a smart ass!”

Quinn groaned. “I don’t know why I put up with you.”

“One word: multiples.”

A smile found itself growing on Quinn’s face. “Oh right. There is _that_.”

Santana finally laid back down, and Quinn pulled her into her arms, making herself the outside spoon for possibly only the second time since they had been married. She was surprised at how much she liked the position; not only did it give her access to Santana’s back and neck, putting it in the perfect position for her to lay kisses on it at her leisure, but it also meant that she got to be the protector, the comforter. She liked this, she liked being in this position, she liked being _here_. It was scary how much she liked being here with Santana, but it was just as scary at how easily she had walked out on it. On them.

Santana’s fingers lightly trailed over the arm that was wrapped around her. “You’re not allowed to be thinking anything bad right now, Quinn,” Santana chastised as if she knew her thoughts.

“I’m not,” Quinn lied.

Santana turned within the circle of her arms so that they were facing each other. “How about we both just agree that neither of us is perfect? You know, forgive trespasses, and those we trespass against, yadda yadda?”

_Yes, but doesn’t that only work with confession?_ As much as Quinn realized that she wasn’t doing herself, or her marriage, any favors by not telling Santana about almost going home with another woman (and honestly, she didn’t quite know that she wouldn’t have gone through with it if the woman hadn’t backed out on her), she just didn’t want it to come up right now. She wanted to wait until they were at least on the other side of the honeymoon, which, she realized, wasn’t without its own irony. She could now fully appreciate Santana not telling her about Brittany and the kiss, but that didn’t make her any more anxious to spill her own secrets.

“Quinn,” Santana said seriously. “I really, really enjoyed this. I really enjoyed tonight. Can’t that be enough?” _Did she know_ , o _r was that Santana’s own guilty conscious talking?_ “At least for tonight?”

Quinn placed a kiss on Santana’s forehead. Quinn didn’t really know if it was an answer, and if it was, she wasn’t quite sure she’d known what the question had been. 

* * *

Santana had no intention of waking up Quinn when she woke up the next morning, and she’d tried her hardest not to, but sometime in the middle of the night the two of them had gotten so hopelessly entangled with the other that Santana had to give up on her attempts to extract herself without waking up Quinn. She softly tapped her, hoping that Quinn would wake up just enough for her to slip out of her grasp, because she really didn’t want to disturb Quinn’s sleep-in day. “Quinn? Babe?” Quinn mumbled something. “You gotta let go so I can get up.”

Quinn’s reaction was to wrap herself more firmly around Santana, her knee accidentally nudging her between her legs. “Erm, Quinn?”

Quinn adjusted herself, which unfortunately for Santana meant that Quinn moved the leg that was in between hers, and she couldn’t help the soft moan that escaped her lips. “Quinn?”

“Mmm I like you moaning my name.”

Santana froze on the spot. After a few seconds of pondering what dreams Quinn was having, Santana decided to have a little fun with it. She brought her lips right close to Quinn’s ear and whispered, softly. “You like that huh?”

“Yeah,” she said, in a breathy whisper.

“Oh, f-fuck Quinn,” Santana breathed.

“Huh, you liked that?” Quinn husked, and damn it, even asleep she was sexy.

“Yeah,” Santana moaned, in what she thought was a fairly good imitation of her sex voice. “God, yeah.”

Quinn started to move slowly, to press down into Santana’s body, and Santana wondered if dream Santana was as skilled as her real life persona. “Just like that.”

“Tell me what you want.”

The word came so quickly she couldn’t have stopped herself if she tried. “Breakfast.”

“Damn it, Santana,” Quinn suddenly hissed, her eyes snapping open. “Way to kill the mood!”

“Wait, you were _awake_?”

“I am now,” Quinn snapped.

Santana gave her a placating kiss. “I’m sorry, babe. I wasn’t trying to wake you, I was just trying to get you to let me go.” She kissed her twice more. “Go back to sleep, and I’ll see you when I get home, okay?”

Santana removed herself from the bed, and got up to go get in the shower, sighing at the feel of the cold water hitting her skin. She had only been under the spray for a less than a minute when the heard the shower curtain, and she felt Quinn’s hands on her hips. “Oh, hi.”

Lips were planted in between her shoulder blades. “Babe, you should be in bed.” It came out as a sigh. Quinn’s hands had moved from her hips to her breast.

“Yes, but I’m up now,” Quinn said.

Santana easily gave in to Quinn’s ministrations. Who was she to argue with logic like that?

Santana couldn’t lie. She liked having sex with Quinn. She easily liked having sex with Quinn more than anyone else she’d ever had sex with. Quinn could turn her on with just a look, and if you were just looking at her you would never guess how insatiable and uninhibited she could be in the bed. Santana had enjoyed teaching and letting her get acquainted with the female body, and was delighted to see how Quinn blossomed out. Once Quinn finally figured out that it was okay to have set she let go of nearly all of her inhibitions, and Santana didn’t complain. It was nice to have a partner that could keep up with her. It was half of the reason that their ‘relationship’ had gone on for so long.

* * *

Santana left the apartment 45 minutes later with a smile on her face. It wasn’t just the morning quickie, it was that Quinn had gotten up to be with her and had even cooked her breakfast, and when she got home from work, there would be lasagna, not lasagna from a box, and not Santana’s poor attempt at it, (home ec, freshman year), but home cooked heavenliness that could only be made better if it was served with Breadstix breadsticks. At that thought, she stopped at the nearest grocery to pick up some breadsticks why the thought was still on her mind, so she didn’t risk forgetting on her way home.

It was not yet 8:00 when she got to work. It really was kind of creepy working in her building, knowing there were few other people there with her. Out of the team she usually worked with, it was just her, Dex, and Nichols on staff today, and while Nichols was the kind to mostly keep his head in his work, Dex only stayed quiet long enough to plan his next conversation or to figure out how to assert himself in the current one. Santana didn’t normally try to initiate conversation with him, and especially not today, because she just wanted to get in, get things done, and go home.

Dex started up as soon as he got in. Santana managed to ignore him for the first hour, but the building was hauntingly quiet, and Santana was torn because she wanted to talk to someone about her date, (actually she didn’t want to _stop_ talking about the date) and right now she didn’t have very many avenues to talk about it. Brittany was off limits, Puck would make fun of her for being so excited about it, and Mercedes, Mercedes was Quinn’s best friend and she didn’t want to overstep her bounds in that department.

Santana was out at work, and Quinn was one of the topics that she liked to frequent. The Monday after they said their vows, the wedding picture taken by Mrs. Fabray had replaced the one on her desk that had been previously occupied by a picture of Quinn, her, and Brittany that had been taken in New York. Santana liked to maintain a modicum of privacy while at work, but she’d talked about Quinn enough in the past for it to have not surprised any of the coworkers she talked to when she announced that the two of them were suddenly married.

The morning went by quickly enough, but midway through the afternoon, Santana got an email from Paulianne that they were not to leave until they sent her a finished sample. She’d gotten the message just as she was leaving for lunch, which put her back in her seat because there was no way they’d be finished by 5:00 as it was, and if she left for lunch they wouldn’t be finished before 8:00. She grunted because Paulianne was a bitch, and because Quinn was making lasagna, and even though the schedule she’d been working lately wasn’t the norm, she didn’t want this to become the norm for her marriage. Her dad, whom she loved dearly, worked no less than 12 hours nearly every day, and on some days didn’t come home at all. This had always been a point of contention in her parent’s marriage. She didn’t want it to be one in hers. She might have gotten married on a whim, but she cared deeply about Quinn and she was going to really try to make things work.

She spent a half hour composing a text in her head before she actually sent: **P’s riding my ass hard, be late coming home. Sorry.**

**Quinn: She’d better at least be pulling your hair. How late?**

**Santana: 8, probably. 10 worst case scenario. Really srry..**

Quinn’s answering **No prob** came a whole half hour later, and took her long enough to send it that Santana started to worry. It was bad enough having to work on Sunday, even worse having to stay late. She felt like she was breaking a promise that she didn’t remember making. It put her in a sour mood, but focused her energies so that they were wrapping things up by 6:30, had come to a consensus by 6:45, and she was emailing Paulianne the completed sample at exactly 6:59 and sending a text message to Quinn letting her know that she was on her way home. 

Sunday evening traffic was miraculously light, and she was home in no time, letting herself into an apartment that smelled deliciously like zesty tomato sauce, but it was conspicuously missing one blonde former cheerleader. “Quinn?” Santana questioned. She wasn’t mistaken, the blonde wasn’t anywhere in the apartment.

She couldn’t have left that long ago, though. The lasagna appeared to be just pulled from the oven; it was still bubbling even, and it smelled fantastic. “Quinn?” Santana called half-heartedly. She gave a searching look around, fished out a fork, and carefully separated a small piece from the dish.

Almost as if she were waiting for her to do just that, Quinn appeared, and she felt a sharp whack on the back of her hand.

“Ow,” Santana hissed, pulling her hand back. “The fuck, Quinn! Why’d you just hit me?”

“Stop picking,” Quinn admonished.

Santana gave her a sideways glance, and sighed because she could tell by the look on Quinn’s face that she was in trouble. “I’m sorry about being late; I told you that things are going to be kind of…erratic at work until this project is over, but we’re done with the finished sample, and-,”

Quinn had that hovering between anger and tears face, and Santana stopped talking because that face had nothing to do with her being late coming home, unless it had something to do with Quinn distrusting Santana, and her being late coming home. Santana looked at the slight red rim to Quinn’s eyes and realized that it was probably that. “Babe, what’s wrong?”

“I got the photos developed,” Quinn said in response. Santana felt her stomach sinking because at least her words explained how she could leave a happy and playful wife and come home to this sullen one.

“I thought you were going to wait for me.”

“I was, but after spending all day talking to your mom, and waiting for dinner to be done, I thought I’d drop them off at the one hour photo at Walgreens, and I was just so excited to see how they turned out that,”

“You went and looked through the ones that I had taken,” Santana finished for her. “You were supposed to wait; it would have saved yourself some heartache if you had.”

“Four, Santana. You took four pictures of me and 19 of other women, two of guys, and two of random things. My whole roll is filled with nothing but pictures of you, and you took _four_ of me! This was supposed to be something special for us! You couldn’t even give me a day?”

Santana laughed even though she knew that she shouldn’t. “I swear, Quinn, you would save yourself half the heartache if you would trust me just a little bit more.”

“There were 19 pictures of women on your camera!”

“Which you wouldn’t have known about if you hadn’t gone looking through my photos. I need just a little trust, Quinn! Not a lot, just a little! It’s not even close to what you think.” She held out her hand. “Where are they? Please tell me you didn’t trash them.”

Quinn abruptly spun on her heels, and retrieved the photos. She slammed them into Santana’s hand. Santana shook her head. This woman. “If you’d waited, I would have been able to get a digital print out of each of these, which would have made it easier to tear, and it would have been more symbolic, but you went and developed them on your own, and got upset, and frustrated, and I wish you would understand that I don’t do things to hurt you. I’m not going to break up with you at a funeral, I don’t want to raw dog a hornets nest, and I’m not going to cheat on you! God it’s not worth the apologizing, begging and pleading that I’d have to do afterwards.”

Santana shook her head, moving into the living room. “I want you to know you ruined my magic trick, Quinn,” she yelled back towards the kitchen.

Quinn stubbornly sat down on the couch, her feet curling beneath her as Santana went searching through one of her boxes in the alcove for the materials she needed. She kneeled down in front of the coffee table, and went searching through the pictures that she took, happy to see that they had all come out the way that she had wanted, even the three that she had experimented shooting a double exposure. Santana spread the pictures out in front of her on the table, and on the floor, and began cutting them up.

“Try to compose a poem and _some people_ jump all down your throat.”

She heard Quinn’s angry exhale of her breath, and did her best to ignore Quinn who she could feel staring daggers at her, probably trying to guess and second guess what she was doing. She ignored Quinn’s glare, and fought down her own anger, because she had had a long day at work, and she had come home expecting to eat some tasty lasagna, and maybe some tasty Quinn, and she had to be at work bright and early tomorrow morning and work five more days before she saw a day off, and damn it, she didn’t want to spend the rest of her life in trouble with Quinn. She wished their five year anniversary would come around already; maybe by then things would stop being so rocky between the two of them.

Almost exactly an hour later, Santana showed Quinn what she had been ‘playing around’ with. She had placed the pieces of her pictures on a black background, and had secured it to a piece of cardstock. “It still needs to be framed, but here. Do you like my poem?” Santana questioned.

Santana watched Quinn’s emotions shift as she studied what Santana was showing her. If things weren’t so tentative between them, she would have crowed at her wife right then…actually, on second thought… “I believe the words you are searching for right now are ‘I’m sorry,’ and ‘I have the best wife ever’ and ‘I’ll go heat you up the food that I deprived you of, now’.”

What Santana had done was make a mosaic of Quinn’s face with the pieces of the pictures that Santana had collected. Quinn could pull out how the curve of a woman’s arm had been made to make up the curve of her right cheek, how pieces of the ball pit made up the rosy color of her cheeks, and how the green of another’s shirt overlaid with the golden glow of the street lamp (one of the double exposed pictures) served as part of her eyes.

“How is this poetry?” Quinn questioned, her voice far softer than it had been an hour before. Her question might not have contained any of the statements that she instructed Quinn to use, but her tone still sounded like victory to Santana. “Poems have words. There’s no words.”

Santana nodded as if that was the point. “Because words always seem to trip us up, whereas actions seem to be the best demonstrators. And there _are_ words, you just have to know how to read it. See these numbers on the side that you probably didn’t even notice: 9-55-2-15-13, those are my lucky lotto numbers because when we got married, I took a gamble, and this other part? To me it says very clearly that you don’t have to worry about my eyes wandering because no matter who it is I’m looking at, the only thing I see when I look at them is you.” Santana scanned over her finished product very proud of herself. “I thought it was very poetic.”

Quinn crawled down the length of the couch to the end where Santana was sitting. She took the picture out of Santana’s hand, before she carefully climbed down into her lap. “It was,” Quinn assured her, planting a kiss on her lips. “Very poetic.”

Santana pulled back a little. “And?” she questioned, not letting Quinn get away that easily.

Quinn grunted, but smiled brushing strands of hair away from Santana’s face so she could get an unobstructed view. “Lo siento, Santana,” she said, and Santana could hear how earnest she was when she said the words. “You are seriously the best wife ever, and,” she faltered, ducking her head, but Santana put a finger under her chin, lifting it so that Quinn couldn’t hide.

“And?”

“And I will try not to think the worst without letting you explain first.”

“I was actually looking for ‘I’ll go heat up the food that I have deprived you of’, but I’ll take that, too.”

Quinn kissed her again before getting to her feet. Santana watched her stand and start to walk away. “Slower, babe,” she joked, “I need more of a show.”

To her delight Quinn added more of a switch to her walk as she made her way into the kitchen. Santana leaned back against the couch with a sigh, a smile teasing her lips.

“What’re you smiling about?”

Santana’s eyes snapped open. Had she dozed off? “Huh?”

“You were smiling.”

Santana smiled again. “Oh.” She laughed. “I was just thinking that I’m starting to like our normal.”

“Yeah?” Quinn questioned, somehow managing to lower herself down onto Santana’s lap without spilling either plate of food. “Do you?”

“Fuck, baby,” Santana said, adjusting herself to accommodate Quinn better. “Remind me to get Puck something amazing for Christmas.”

Quinn rocked her hips forward, still holding both plates of food. “Why’s that?”

“Because, after me, you’re like the sexiest bitch on this planet. And I get to come home to you.”

Santana wondered if she had taken it too far, after seeing the look on Quinn’s face, but Quinn only responded by leaning forward, meeting Santana halfway. Santana came forward the rest of the way, bringing her lips up to Quinn’s. It was a slow burning kiss that ended just as it was heating up because Quinn was still holding onto their dinner.

“Okay, when we get our own place, we’re definitely going to need hardwood floors in every possible room that we can fuck,” Santana grunted. She took the plates from Quinn’s hand and sat them on the floor before pulling Quinn forward, only to be stopped by something hard pressing into her chest. “What the hell?” Santana questioned, as she pulled out the beer bottle that had been resting snuggly in Quinn’s cleavage.

“I only have two hands,” Quinn explained. “I figured we could share.”

Santana could only offer a grunt because _damn_ and how on Earth did she happen to get this lucky? Santana quickly liberated Quinn’s breast from her shirt and bra, and eagerly licked up the condensation that the beer left on them. “San,” Quinn moaned. “The food.”

“I’ll be quick,” Santana promised. She latched her mouth onto Quinn’s nipple, her hand disappearing beneath the band of Quinn’s shorts. Santana was well studied in the art of her wife’s body, and it was only a matter of minutes before she had Quinn trembling on top of her. “That’s what I mean by topping from the bottom,” Santana husked. She slipped her fingers into her mouth to clean them off thoroughly, while Quinn watched in a slightly blissed out state. Santana wasn’t expecting any reciprocation, but when Quinn’s hand started to drift downward, she merely spread her legs to give Quinn better access. Santana once again buried her face in Quinn’s chest, rocking her hips to meet each of her thrusts.

It didn’t take long for Santana to be rewarded with her own climax, but it was long enough for the food to get cold. Since Quinn heated up the food the first time around, Santana was the one to do it the second time around. They both stuck to their own laps this time, but Santana purposely didn’t get another beer because she didn’t mind sharing.

“So, what’d you spend the day doing?”

Judging by her smile, Santana figured that Quinn had been waiting for her to ask. “Me and moms, mine and yours, argued about the food, and the color, we agreed on the tables, chairs and flowers, dad chimed in his two cents about entertainment. By the way, how do you feel about a Mariachi band? Oh and there was another fight about food, and we have a cake testing this Saturday, so you better not have to work.”

Santana shook her head. She _hoped_ she didn’t have to work. Paulianne had her finished sample so hopefully it was off her desk for the moment. “Good, because you deserve some of this aggravation, too.”

“What do you need me to do?” she questioned.

“I’ll make you a list,” Quinn said seriously. She paused for a second, and gave Santana a quick kiss, then continued talking as if she hadn’t stopped. “Oh, I forgot to mention, your mom is going to be coming up a week early, which means my mom is probably going to do the same, so they can sleep at my place because the couch folds out into a bed, and they can fight over who gets to sleep where.”

“That should be fun. Did dad say if he was coming early or not?”

“Yes, but no. He’s committed to the hospital until Thursday afternoon. And did you know that our mom’s actually like each other?”

“I figured they had to at least tolerate each other if they made the bet.”

“Yea, but they did that back when we were in high school, but I mean they like each other, like each other. Like they spend time together, and argue like they’re us.”

“We had to get that from somewhere,” Santana joked.

“Don’t you think it’s weird that they’ve been friends nearly as long as we have, and we didn’t even know about it?”

Santana gave an amused laugh. “You do realize why that is, right?”

Quinn looked over at Santana. “Why what is? Why we didn’t know about it, or why they’re friends?”

“Both.”

Quinn quirked an eyebrow at her wife. “I take it you do?”

“Well besides that we used to do _everything_ together so they were around each other for four years, both of them thought we were going to get married someday, so they probably figured that it was good practice for the future.”

“Do you think that they really made the bet?”

“I fully believe that they did,” Santana said with a soft chuckle. “They were probably thinking that you were the only one in this place that could handle being married to me, so if we didn’t get married, I was just SOL.”

“I’m pretty sure everyone else would have given up on me by now,” Quinn mumbled.

Santana reached for her hand, and kissed it. “Nah, you’re too pretty,” she chided. “And you’re a halfway decent cook, too.”


	15. Cat Fights & Chocolate Pudding

Santana smiled and grimaced when she saw the person who was calling her. “You’ve got Santana,” she said, tensing.

“Kalamazoo?” A very angry voice demanded.

Santana winced. “Bless you.”

“I wasn’t sneezing, Satan!” Mercedes hissed, and she was glad that there was (hopefully) a whole city between them because Diva sounded grade-A pissed! “Kalamazoo? As in Michigan! _Michigan_!”

“‘Cedes, I have no earthly idea what you are talking about,” which was true, “unless you’re calling to tell me that you got me and Quinn a vacation to Kalamazoo for our honeymoon, and to that I would say that that is very generous of you, however, Quinn and I have already made plans to go to Cabo.”

“Santana Quintanilla Fabray-Lopez, you know I’m not talking about some damn honeymoon!”

Santana gasped. “How do you know my real middle name?”

“Do you really expect me to believe that a conservative Catholic woman really gave her daughter the middle name of ‘Diabla’? And I just so happen to know that your mother was absolutely obsessed with Selena when you were born.”

Santana looked around. “Okay, but just don’t go spreading that around! Sheesh!”

“Really? You’re worried about people knowing your middle name, and not about, I don’t know, kidnapping charges?”

“Seriously, Wheezy, what are you talking about?”

“You know, I was expecting, maybe some one bumping into him in the bar, spilling a drink, maybe getting into a fight with him and him spending the night in the tank, or maybe some crazy chick just being crazy on him. You know what I wasn’t thinking? Kalamazoo!”

“Mercedes,” Santana said, slowly. “I have no earthly idea what you are talking about.” Still true. “Who’s him?”

“Him is Xavier. You know the guy that I just broke up with? He called me, apparently he’s had a _really_ rough weekend. On Friday morning he got a ticket for speeding, his car got towed, and he got another ticket for jaywalking. Then he went out drinking, and woke up in Kalamazoo, Michigan, with no clue how he got there, wearing only a pair of shorts, shoes, a winter jacket, and with nothing on him but $5, his driver’s license, a Greyhound bus ticket back to Boston, and a note that said ‘ _Thanks for the wild time, XOXO Amber’!_ ”

Santana blinked, trying very hard not to laugh, but frankly she was just impressed, no way would she have been that clever. “Wow,” she said with a straight face, “that does sound like he’s had a bad weekend!”

“And a tattoo, Santana, a tat! You know how I feel about ink!”

Santana couldn’t help but snort this time, because as an outsider, the whole thing was insanely funny, and this was actually the first time she was hearing this. “Of what?”

“80/20. I don’t even know what that means. What the hell does that mean?”

“80, 20?”

“Like eight zero forward slash two zero.”

80/20? Santana wracked her head for possible meaning, and then nodded. “I think, and don’t quote me on this, but did you ever watch _Why’d I Get Married?”_

“Oh, god, years and years ago. Why?”

“When the guy was explaining relationships he mentioned the 80/20 principal. You know, the most you’ll ever get out of a relationship is 80%, but people want a 100%, so when they meet someone that gives them that extra 20%, they think they have all 100, and they’ll leave the 80, for the 20, only to find that all you get from the 20…just watch the movie. And seriously, I’m just speculating. I promise, Mercedes, I didn’t touch your Ex. Ask Quinn: I was with her all Friday night, I was at work Saturday morning, and we went on a date Saturday night.”

“Oh, how’d that go?” Mercedes questioned, suddenly switching gears.

“Quinn didn’t tell you?”

“Doesn’t matter what Quinn told me, I’m asking you.”

Santana’s fingers were halfway to her hair before she realized what she was doing. “Incredible! I mean it was probably as close to perfect as possible. For a second, I thought Quinn was taking me to _The Meadow_ , but that was just a decoy. We ended up going to this really bomb arcade instead.”

Santana knew Mercedes was shaking her head. “Only _you_ would think that it’s a sucky date to go to an expensive, fancy restaurant.”

“Meh. My baby knows me, and because _I_ know Quinn, mostly likely I will be taking her to some swank restaurant this weekend because she likes romance. I might even get her a white horse, except that’s animal cruelty isn’t it? And animal cruelty and dates don’t really mix well. Which brings me back to a more pressing matter. Not that I didn’t thoroughly enjoy just how bad of a weekend Xavier had, how do you know about it?”

“He called me. He told me that he felt like the universe was trying to tell him something, and that we needed to talk because he didn’t realize what he had, and he wants to come back.”

“And you said…?” Santana questioned, on edge, because if Mercedes went back to this dude…It got quiet.

“Well,” Mercedes hedged, “he _really_ isn’t that bad of a guy, and,”

“You’ve _got_ to be kidding me! I think Sam is a like a barely conscious mouth breathing lemur but when you were with him at least-”

“You know the cardinal rule,” Mercedes snapped. “Never mention Sam!”

“But you two would be perfect for each other if you could just figure out how to get out of your own way.”

“Pot, meet kettle.”

“Hey, I’m not in my own way,” Santana protested. “I’m playing the field with the cards that I’ve been given.”

“Whatevs, and just so you know, I _was_ kidding,” Mercedes said. “I mean like I’m still hurt about it and what not, mostly cause I hate being single, but I’m not about to get back with him now. I’m also semi-scared of you now, Satan, now that I know that you will actually go ‘Lima Heights’ on someone, but thank you. I was having a hard time not laughing at this fool when he called.”

Santana laughed, but quickly got serious. “Just so we’re clear, I didn’t _do_ anything, but if I did, I didn’t do this because he broke up with you, so don’t think that every ex is going to get this treatment. I did this because he’s a complete asshole, and because of the _way_ he broke up with you.”

“And I thank you for what you didn’t do for me, Santana. You’re not half bad.”

“Please, you know you love me.”

“Tell yourself what you must,” Mercedes said before she hung up the phone.

Mercedes timing was perfect because the phone conversation ended right as she made it to the range. She showed her ID, purchased some rounds, got her piece from her locker and started to assemble it. Santana hated coming to the range at lunch because it was a surprisingly unoriginal idea and the place had far too many people during mid-day for her comfort. It was a necessary evil; she was having a hard time finding time to get out here since she’d gotten married. It’d been easy to just stop by on the way home from work back when she didn’t have any one to come home to (or be expected to cook for). The only good thing about working these rotating schedules these past few weeks was that she could go during the middle of the day, without having to offer an explanation to someone.

Santana’s prime reason for not liking to come shoot on her lunch break manifested at her right elbow, when she was on her third sheet of targets. Santana wanted to just flat out ignore the guy, but he seemed like the kind of idiot who would grab your arm to get your attention, so Santana put the safety back on the gun and sat it on the counter. “What?” she demanded, vaguely aware that he had been saying something.

“I said that’s a nice piece you have there! You know what you’re working with?”

Santana recognized this guy. His name was Peyton O’Halloran, Hal for short. Santana’s working knowledge of him was what the guys in the locker room said about him, namely that he overcompensated big time. She knew the guy had five or six different guns, and she could tell by the way he was talking that he considered himself to be a ‘gun enthusiast’. Santana hated guys like that on principal. Frankly, she disliked people who had guns just to have a gun. These things weren’t toys.

Santana looked down at her piece, pretending to be surprised that she had a gun in her hand. She rolled her eyes. “What this? No! The guy at the gun store said it was a Walther PPKS. I don’t know what that means, but it looked really pretty.”

The guy obviously didn’t understand sarcasm. “Pretty? No, try sexy. That’s Bonds gun. You know 007?”

Actually, it was Bond’s most _popular_ gun, but by no means was it the only gun to appear in a Bond movie. In Dr. No alone he used five different kinds of gun. The PPK was also the gun Hitler used in his suicide attempt. Santana already knew this; she really didn’t need some scared pencil-dick to interrupt the little time she had. She had come to shoot, not chat.

Santana’s felt it more than heard it when her phone started to ring. _Oh thank god,_ she thought. “This is my wife, I’ve got to take this.”

“Your wife?” _Yes, dipshit._ “You one of those lesbians?”

Santana cut her eyes at Hal. “I’ve got a gun in my hand. I’d really think about the next words that are about to come out of your mouth.”

Santana connected the call. “Hey, babe, what’s up?”

“Just went on lunch break and I thought I’d call.”

Santana loved that Quinn sounded almost shy about admitting that. She figured there was no harm in laying it on thick. “I’m glad you did. Paulianne hated the formatting on the sample. She’s been kind of crazy this morning; I needed an escape.”

Quinn didn’t immediately answer. “Where are you? That sounds like gun shots in the background.”

“S’not,” Santana lied. “One of the guys at work has the staff TV blaring some dumb cop show. What’s up?”

“Want to meet me for lunch?”

Santana smiled and checked her watch. “Where?” she questioned. 

“The Commons.”

Santana quickly calculated the distance. “Umm...yeah, sure. I’ll only be able to talk to hang for probably 10 minutes, but yeah. Give me 20?”

“Okay. What do you want?”

“Where are you going?”

“Capitol Coffee.”

“Umm…the veggie burger.”

Santana imagined that her wife’s eyebrow rose. “The Veggie? Rachel really did get to you.”

“No she didn’t,” Santana hissed defensively. “Sometimes I just like it. Oh, and a side of fries.”

“Doesn’t ordering fries with a veggie kind of defeat the purpose?”

“Hey, I’m not saying anything about the grilled cheese and bacon sandwich that I know you’re getting, so you don’t say anything about the French fries I know you’ll be stealing from me.”

Quinn laughed. “Oh, you know me so well.”

“Don’t I?” Santana returned. “20 minutes.”

“I’ll be waiting for you underneath the flag pole.”

“Which flag?”

“American.”

“Okay. See you.”

Santana hung up, broke down the PPKS, locked it in its case, put it back in her locker, got her car, and managed to make it from Broadway to Park Street, and find a parking space less than a block from the park, all in under 11 minutes. I mean seriously, she deserved a medal. She found Quinn easily, beneath the flag pole, like she said. Like many of the other foot traffic, Quinn was wearing a black skirt business suit, with a simple white shirt, but somehow still managed to stand out. Beside the bag from Capitol Coffee, she was carrying her Trader Joe’s reusable bag.

“You still have nine minutes left,” Quinn teased her.

“Sometimes I manage to impress even myself,” Santana said with a cocky swagger. Quinn rolled her eyes, before giving her a kiss. “Mmm…can I have more of that?”

Quinn placed another peck on her lips. “I got you water, I hope you don’t mind.”

Santana looked at the water bottle in general disdain but accepted it from Quinn along with her food. They ate and walked until Santana found a spot that had a lot of foot traffic, and then she parked herself down on the bench.

“How’s your day going?”

“So far, I’ve gone through about 12,000 lines of financial statements and projections, and you know, I always thought that life would be so much more glamourous then this.”

Santana gave a nod. “So true,” she agreed, “But when you’re a kid you don’t have a working concept of reality. You don’t realize how _real_ life is.” She had expected to be famous by now for something. Instead she was working a semi 9-5, and hadn’t sung for an audience in over 3 years. Santana liked her job, though, and she thought she was in a pretty good place in her life.

“Hey so you know that scene in Twilight where Edward shows off his abilities to read people’s mind?”

“Yea,” Quinn drawled, not knowing where Santana was going with this.

“It was awesome right?”

“Yeah, it was awesome reading off of a script and pretending that he knew what people were thinking.”

Santana rolled her eyes. “I don’t know _why_ you pretend that you didn’t read those books and watch the movies religiously. Oh, wait, I do, because they were lame, real vampires don’t sparkle, and you don’t want people to know that you fell for literature porn.”

Quinn cleared her throat. “Excuse me… _real_ vampires?”

“Smart people know that there are real vampires, Quinn, it’s a fact of life, just accept it. And stop distracting me, I want to show off how awesome I am.”

Quinn looked around suddenly, her eyes going wide. “You can’t do that here, San! Sex in public is illegal!”

“I know you’re merely teasing me, otherwise I would be intensely hurt.”

Quinn leaned in and kissed her. “Of course I’m teasing. You’re awesome even outside of the bed. Show me what you wanted to show me?”

“Only if you say please.”

Quinn leaned in, and fluttered her eyelashes. “Please?”

Santana had to remember what she was doing. Oh right, awesome. “So I want to show you how not hard that is. Pick some body, anybody.”

Quinn eagerly searched the people walking by. She and Santana used to do this when they were in high school, but it was mostly to find faults with others and laugh at them while they pointed them out. “Umm…how about that couple. The one holding hands. They seem cute.”

Santana scanned the crowd. “The two heading towards us?” Quinn nodded. “Give me a second. Talk about something so it doesn’t look like I’m just gawking.”

“I like your hair today.”

Santana’s eyes found Quinn’s. “Mm…do you?” She nodded solemnly. “Does this mean you don’t like my hair every day?”

“No, I like it just about every day; today I especially like it.”

“When do you not like it?”

“When you do that bang thing. Oh, and when you died it blonde. Me no gusta.”

Santana chuckled, leaned in and whispered in a very sultry voice, “Me gusta cuando hablas asi.” And gave a knowing smile when she pulled back.

“Umm…you like what?”

Santana winked. “When you talk like that,” she purred in her ear. “Okay, so did you get a good look at them?”

Quinn nodded after she remembered what they were doing. She gave a glance back at the couple, just to make sure. “Yeah.”

“How good of a look?” Santana challenged.

Quinn was pretty good with memorization. She felt slightly confident. “Fairly good.”

“So, what were they wearing?”

“Umm…he was wearing a brown tweed jacket, and casual pants, and she was wearing an ugly turquoise blouse, and a black skirt.”

“What else?”

“What do you mean?”

“Shoes, socks, stockings, hat? Hair color, eye color, what else did you pick up on?”

“Oh…ummm…she was wearing heels, and he was wearing…loafers.”

“You just guessed at that.”

“Well what did you notice about them? I thought _you_ were the one who was supposed to be showing off.”

Santana kind of shrugged. “What didn’t I notice? First off, he wasn’t wearing loafers. He was wearing slip in wing tips, not black, but dark gray. The two of them are having an affair. They just got finished having sex, and they are walking through the Commons before she goes back to work because she works close by, and his wife doesn’t come by this side of town, so he doesn’t have to worry about running into her. She thinks that he’s a big shot who works in the financial district, but he really works in a manual field, my guess is that he owns a small auto body shop.

“She’s a smoker, he drinks slightly more than social. She believes he is going to leave his wife. He won’t because they have…two kids together, both under the age of 10.”

Quinn was silent for half a minute. “Okay, so either you know the two of them or you’re just guessing.”

“I _am_ just guessing, but I’m really good at it.”

“How do you know that they’re not together?” Quinn questioned curiously.

“That’s easy. Neither of them are wearing a wedding ring.”

“Okay, that doesn’t make sense; if neither of them are wearing wedding rings, how do you know that _he’s_ married, and she isn’t?”

“Because when you wear the same piece of jewelry all day, every day, there’s this tell-tale indention on your finger, however slight, especially if the finger was skinnier when you got it, and you haven’t yet managed to take it to the jewelers to get it resized. His hand had the mark, hers didn’t.”

“So, maybe he just takes it off because he was at work, didn’t you say he probably works in an auto body shop?”

“Yes, that’s a possibility,” Santana allowed, “but I’m willing to bet that his ring is in his left pant pocket judging by the way he kept patting it, and that he takes it off so she thinks that he’s not serious about his wife, but he gets anxious when he doesn’t have it on.”

“And that other stuff?”

“I know that they just had a quickie because her shirt is buttoned up incorrectly, and he didn’t pull his fly all the way back up. He’s walking her back to her job, which I’m guessing is either as a secretary or a school teacher, just based on what she’s wearing, length of skirt, cut of the blouse. You can tell she smokes because her fingers kept twitching as if she’s anxious for some nicotine. I say he works in an auto body shop because his nails are cut very short, and they’re stained. I say the manager/owner because of the way he’s dressed. He’s wearing an expensive, but well-worn jacket, and nice pants, which means that at some point he could afford them, yet he didn’t think to put any effort into his shoes, which are very inexpensive. If he were actually a banker, he’d know better. You can tell he drinks by the circles around his eyes, and I’m just guessing that he has two kids, but he had acrylic colored glue on the heel of his shoe, and typically it’s kids that use that. I say they are under 10 because he’s cheating, but hasn’t left his wife. Statistically speaking men like himself don’t leave until the oldest is at least 10 because he is biologically less attached once they reach an age where they are perceived to be able to fend for themselves.”

“You _are_ a spy, aren’t you?”

Santana laughed a little uncomfortably. “Just observant. That guy at 3:00? He’s carrying. As is that guy passing underneath the tree. You can tell because of the way one of them walks, and the way his shirt bulges around it. The one walking with that swagger, I’m guessing was bullied as a kid. He has a holster on his leg, I’m guessing because he’s scared of shooting off his penis, but he may as well shoot it off because if he’s ever confronted he’s more likely to hurt himself than his attacker. That girl, the tall, heavy-set woman with the brown/red hair? She’s been carrying around an engagement ring for some time, but hasn’t yet worked up the nerve to propose to her girlfriend. She also really likes carrots. Like really, _really_ likes carrots.”

Santana shook her head. “Weird people. Oh!” She said, excitedly. “That guy on the bicycle? He’s about to get sideswiped and…there he goes.”

Sure enough the bicyclist was hit by a car. The guy jumped up and immediately started arguing with the driver who, just as hot tempered, argued back.

Quinn was looking as if Santana had three heads. She had gone from beyond impressed to just plain freaked out. Santana nodded at the look. “You _see_ why I like my little anus worm now?” Santana questioned.

Quinn nodded dumbly. “ _How_?”

Santana seemed to be enjoying herself. “I pay attention. I’ve always kind of noticed these things, but when I started studying psychology, I started noticing more. Like, I noticed that the driver of that car wasn’t paying attention to the light, and I also know that on average a driver hits or almost hits a bicyclist at that intersection once a week. People exist in patterns, and they leave tells for you to pick up on if you’re astute enough to notice.”

Quinn looked down at her hands, and Santana just waited patiently. She watched as that Fabray spitfire grabbed hold of her, and her shoulders stiffened, her back straightened, her head shot up. Santana recognized this as Quinn’s fighting position. “So what do you know?” she questioned bracingly.

Santana shrugged a shoulder, not looking at her. Santana’s display had only been to amuse Quinn, not to head in this direction, but she wasn’t going to swerve now that they were. “What should I know, Quinn?” she responded.

Quinn turned towards Santana. “I didn’t cheat.”

Santana’s expression didn’t even flicker. “Because the opportunity didn’t present itself to you, or because you couldn’t go through with it?”

“I don’t know,” Quinn admitted. “I thought I had irreversibly fucked things up between us, so I went out to a bar, and I got drunk. The bartender was cute, and nice. She listened to me, and the only thing on my mind was that I didn’t want to go home alone.”

“You wouldn’t have been alone if you’d come home.”

“I know that, Santana,” Quinn snapped.

“I even let you know that you could.”

“I know! I messed up! I’m new to this, too, and it’s hard for me to trust that…good things don’t stay good for me for long; something always happens.”

Santana couldn’t help her grin (even if was short lived) because Quinn had just implied that she was a ‘good thing’. “Maybe, but great things always happen to me, and you’re my wife, so that means that you get half of everything I get.” Quinn gave a reluctant smile that disappeared when Santana asked, “Why _didn’t_ you go home with her?”

Santana could tell that Quinn wanted to lie, but saw that it wouldn’t be helping her out any. “Because she dropped me off at my apartment, told me she just wanted to make sure I got home okay, and that I shouldn’t make a mistake that I couldn’t take back, just because I was angry.” Santana knew that Quinn’s eyes were on her so she tried to keep her face blank. Inside, however, she held on to the information that Quinn wasn’t the one to stop things. That one argument had almost placed her in the bed of someone else. “So, what happens now?” Quinn questioned quietly.

“What do you mean what happens now? Now, we throw away our garbage, recycle this demon plastic bottle, I’ll walk you back to work, and then we go home.”

Quinn frowned, confused. “So, you’re not…we’re okay?”

“No. It’s not okay that you were going to go home with some other chick, and it’s not okay that you didn’t come back home. Those things aren’t okay. I get that we’re both new to this whole relationship thing, but that’s not behavior that’s acceptable if this marriage is something that we’re actually going to do. It hurt, Quinn. It hurt falling asleep feeling like my wife didn’t care enough about me to even say good night, and it hurts even more to find out that the reason was because she was looking to take someone else home with her, but we’ve already had words over this. It’s not worth it to revisit it and say some things that will hurt the both of us. I’m not a push over, but I’m also not going to be mad over something that already happened.”

Quinn was thrown by how little of a deal Santana was making of this. “I’m trying,” Santana said. “I know our track record, and I know that trust is hard for you, but I need you to trust that this is real for me. I can’t promise you that I’m never going to fuck up; sometimes I just don’t think through my actions, and I don’t always do the right thing. I know you can’t promise me the same thing either; I don’t need you to. I’m not looking for you to be perfect Quinn, I need you just to try. Like you want me to do with the cooking and what not. Try. I promise that I’m not going anywhere. I’m committed to us; I’m here for the long fight as long as you’re willing to try with me. So tell me that you’ll be a gladiator, and promise you’ll fight with me?”

Quinn gave a nod. “Over a cliff.”

“Then it’s over.” Santana got to her feet, offering her wife a hand. Quinn eagerly accepted it. “San?” Santana gave her a curious look as she brought her hand up to tenderly cup Santana’s cheek. She kissed her lovingly. “Thank you for being a friend.”

Santana smiled, fervently kissing the back of the hand that was offered. “I’ve traveled down the road and back again. Your heart is true.”

“You’re my pal and a confidant.”

When they got back to Tremont Street, and started to say their good-bye’s Quinn remembered the bag that she was holding. “Oh, Santana, I forgot. This is for you.”

Santana gave a skeptical look at the bag. “What is it?”

Quinn held it out to her, with a beaming smile. “Just look!” Santana was cautious as she opened the bag, but then a smile overtook her face. “I would have sent these to you at work, but I don’t know where you work. They’re for your desk.”

Santana pulled out the skinny vase, not quick enough to hide the emotion that was on her face at the sight of the flowers. “What’s this for?” Santana questioned.

Quinn kissed her again before ducking her head shyly. “You deserve flowers, Santana.” 

* * *

_10 minute social media break_ , Quinn told herself, looking around at her busily occupied coworkers. She used to tell herself she was just going to make a 5 minute pop in to Circles but no one could log on to Circles for five minutes. It was an impossibility. 10 was a long shot, too, but she was attempting to be good. Besides, she wanted to check on her RSVP’s, and update the calendar. She had been talking compulsively with Maribel, and things were moving along faring nicely, she thought. Maribel was using every cent of the $10,000 she’d won off of her mother, as well as chipping in some of her own, as was Quinn’s mom. So far she and Santana weren’t having to shell out much of their own money, which was great because Quinn was starting to feel as if they should be power saving for something somewhere down the line.

She entered the latest guests into the virtual seating chart model, and couldn’t help but notice the name that she had refused to seat: _Brittany S. Harrison._ Her lip curled up in a moment of fury as she thought about their last interaction. Quinn had always known that Brittany was more of Santana’s friend than Quinn’s. Quinn would always defend her if someone was picking on her, and she, along with Santana, kept Brittany from getting slushied during her stay at McKinley, but she had never gone out of her way to be around the girl. She didn’t understand Brittany’s light and forgiving take on the world and had always been a little jealous of her for it. Quinn and Santana had had childhood cut short, while Brittany perpetually remained a child.

It hadn’t been Quinn’s intention to come to the studio but after seeing Brittany’s RSVP she had just gotten angry, and that anger was still there when she left work for the day. She’d driven around aimlessly until she’d ended up at the Fondue for Two set. She didn’t expect to make it past security, but surprisingly they just waved her through after she gave her name. She also wasn’t expecting them to be in the process of filming when she came by either. Well, they weren’t exactly filming, but they were setting up for their next show.

Quinn found Brittany almost immediately, the only shot of blonde hair on set. She was talking to her production assistant while keeping one eye on the stage which was apparently being filled by some weird goo-like substance. Brittany looked over at the right time, and caught Quinn’s eye. She recognized the confusion on her face.

“It’s pudding!” Brittany chirped, waving Quinn cheerfully over. “Isn’t it pretty?”

Quinn was off-put by the friendly greeting, considering that the bitch had first embarrassed her on her web show, then kissed her wife, and sent her a photo of the event. Quinn’s temper flared, but the pudding was distracting. “ _Why_ do you have so much pudding?” Quinn questioned.

Brittany seemed delighted by the question. “Because June 26th is National Chocolate Pudding Day, and July 15th is National Tapioca Pudding Day, and September 19th is National Butterscotch Pudding Day, which is my absolute favorite pudding, and Bill Cosby’s birthday was a few days ago, so I decided that in honor we should have a pudding celebration for all of the great puddings out there! Our next show is pudding themed. We have a pudding making contest, and a pudding taste-test competition, and we have a pudding guest singer, and we’re going to have a pudding free-for all brawl, the winner of which will take home a life time supply of-,”

“Let me guess, pudding?”

“No, silly, Fondue! Oh my gosh, I didn’t even think of pudding! Maybe we should have gone with that.”

Quinn wanted to tell Brittany that that was the stupidest theme she had ever heard, but she’d watched episodes of the show for years now, and it wasn’t even close to the stupidest idea Brittany had had so far, and anyway, she wasn’t here to discuss Brittany’s show choices.

“We need to talk,” Quinn snapped. It didn’t matter that she was in Brittany’s space, on the set of Brittany’s show. She was Quinn Fabray (Lopez) former head cheerleader of McKinley High School, and still expected to be obeyed.

For a minute it looked like Brittany was going to do just that, but instead she gave a smile meant to be disarming. “We do. Unfortunately, I can’t right now, Quinn, I’ve got a crazy production schedule going on for the rest of this week, and when I’m not here, I’m at the studio for a recital coming up at the end of the month.”

Quinn glowered at the girl and her flippant dismissal. “Yet you have plenty of time to send text messages to me about _kissing_ Santana?”

Brittany gave one of those looks where she smiled and tilted her head to the side and you couldn’t exactly tell what was going on inside of her head. Everyone always dismissed Brittany as being stupid, but that was because they never really paid attention to her. Quinn was sure Brittany wanted it that way. “I just thought you should know about the kiss.”

“ _You_ kissed _her_. She didn’t kiss you.”

Again with the look, patient, understanding, pitying. “Does it matter?” Brittany questioned, speculatively. “I didn’t send that picture to you because I wanted you to think that Santana kissed me, I sent it because I wanted to remind you that I’m home to her, Quinn. People go out into the world all the time. They travel to all of these places, and have fun, and get dazzled by the sights and wonders of discovering something new. Sometimes they even move and enjoy living in other places. But at some point you go back home.” She shrugged in an uncaring way. “I’ll always be home to her.”

Quinn refused to allow her words to settle with her. “What the hell, Brittany? You’re married! Shouldn’t you be _home_ to your own wife?”

“I’m just telling you like it is, Quinn.” Her eyebrow quirked in a very Quinn way. “I learned from the best.”

“Does Tamara know that you’re busy chasing after your ex?”

“I’m not _chasing_ after Santana; I don’t have to chase after her. Whenever this little _thing_ is over between the two of you, and she gets bored, she will come back to me.”

Quinn shook her head, not wanting to let Brittany’s words get to her. “Are you really that big of a bitch, Brittany?”

Brittany chuckled, and it was the same lighthearted laugh that had populated their conversations, and made Santana swoon, and had guys rushing to fulfill her wishes just so they could hear it again. “Really, Quinn? _You_ are asking me that. You,” she scoffed. “You may succeed in fooling other people, but I know who you are, Quinn. Behind that sweet, innocent smile, and those kind words, I know the snake the lies within. I knew you when you were that chubby little girl with more donuts than friends, and I knew you when you were that conniving, selfish, insecure bitch who used Santana to claw her way to the top only to fall so spectacularly. You always seem surprised when bad things happen to you; have you ever thought that maybe it’s just karma?

“You’re not a good person, Quinn. You’re a manipulative, petty, cheater. You would sell your own soul to save yourself heartache, and I know this _thing_ with Santana, it’s fun now, and that’s the only reason why you’re still here. The second you start to get bored, you’re going to look elsewhere, and you’re going to break Santana’s heart into a thousand pieces when you do.”

Quinn shook her head, shaking away words that sounded like her own constant inner dialogue. “You’re wrong, Brittany.” She grew bolder. “And you know something else? You can throw yourself at her all you want, but she doesn’t want you anymore,” Quinn said, determinedly.

“ _Now_. She’s only still with you because you’re new. Like a penny. But as soon as the shine rubs off, she’s going to toss you aside the same way you toss away a penny when you realize it’s just never going to add up to anything of value.”

Quinn didn’t actually think about it, she just let out a scream, surging forward. The next thing she knew both of them were flying backwards. It was lucky for Brittany (and she supposes lucky for her too), that Brittany ended up falling back into the tub of pudding. “You bitch!” Quinn shrieked. She raised a hand to slap Brittany, but the blow lost much of its impact as it was mostly absorbed by the pudding.

Brittany danced away from her. “Think of this as me doing you a favor,” Brittany taunted. “It gives you every excuse to run away. That’s what you do best, right Quinn?”

Quinn threw a handful of pudding at Brittany, which hit her square in the face. Quinn got a firm grip on Brittany’s leg, and pulled her back down. “Does it _look_ like I’m going anywhere?”

Brittany attempted to wrestle her leg away from her. “It’s only a matter of time. Old habits die hard.”

Quinn reared up to hit her again, but Brittany blocked the blow, knocking Quinn backwards. Brittany managed to grab a fistful of Quinn’s hair, and pulled her down by it. Quinn got her own fistful, trying to gain leverage. The pudding made it hard, preventing them from standing, but she managed to make it onto her knees. “If you think that I’m just going to sit back and let you throw yourself at my wife, you don’t know me, but if you don’t step off, you’re going to know me really well.”

“You sound almost like you mean that,” Brittany taunted.

“You don’t want to find out how much I mean that. You _don’t_ know me,” Quinn threatened.

Brittany dropped her shoulder, throwing off Quinn’s weight. She pitched forward, and using it to her advantage. Brittany got a good grip on her arm, and rolled her, pinning her down. She straddled her. “Actually, I do,” Brittany said, and this time her voice was different then it had been. There was no venom, or gloat to her voice. Her blue eyes stared determinedly into Quinn’s hazels. Quinn felt the fight draining out of her as if the pudding had special absorptive powers.

“I really care about her, Britt,” she whispered, practically pleaded.

“No fucking kidding, Quinn; you’re rolling around in pudding, fighting over her. You’re fighting me rather than telling Santana something that she already knows and isn’t even a secret. This little cat fighting and bitch slapping that you used to do in high school doesn’t work anymore because I’m not that girl from high school, and neither are you. I get it: your childhood sucked, and you had bad things happen to you. Boo fucking hoo, Quinn; you’re not the only one! If you want those things that you did, and that happened to you to define you, you are going to miss the something wonderful that has been staring you in the face for a long ass time. I’m not the only one that’s tired of you walking around with your eyes closed because it’s not just hurting you, it’s hurting her, too, and she doesn’t deserve that.” Brittany wiped a glob of pudding from the side of her face. “So yeah, I had my assistant snap a picture of me kissing her, and you’re damned right I’m fighting over her because she deserves someone that will!”

Quinn was reminded sharply of conversation she had had with her this afternoon. “I’m fighting, too,” Quinn responded. She was lucky that her face was covered in pudding because it did a good job of hiding her tears.

“You better be.” She rolled off of her and helped Quinn to her feet. Quinn was surprised to look around and realized that they weren’t actually alone. In fact, their escapades had pretty much drawn most of the crew out into the center of the set, though surprisingly no one had moved even an inch to pull the two of them off of each other. Brittany helped her to her feet. “There’s a shower in my trailer, and Soyara can get you something from costumes for you to wear. If you leave your suit, I can have it dry-cleaned for you, too.”

Quinn nodded, but didn’t look at her. “Thanks, B.”

She dusted her shoulders off. “It’s Brittany, bitch.”

* * *

Quinn texted Santana when she was cleaned up, and was happy to find that she was still in the area. “P, went total dragon-lady, and she forced us to stay late. Did you get started on dinner? Want me to stop somewhere?”

“Actually, I haven’t made it back yet. How about we meet up somewhere? Les Zygomates?”

“Maggiano’s?” Santana countered quickly.

“Should I be worried about this apparent pasta addiction?” Quinn questioned. “Should I be looking for 12 step programs?”

“I’ve got two more years before everything I consume goes to my hips. Let me enjoy this.”

“Maggiano’s it is. How much longer do you think you’ll be?”

“I’m leaving right now.”

Santana beat her to the restaurant, which nearly cemented the fact that Santana worked somewhere downtown, but that also made something else apparent too. “You lied to me earlier,” Quinn accused.

Santana who was going in for a hug, paused. “Umm…what was I lying about?”

“When you said you were at work. It doesn’t take 20 minutes to get to the Commons from downtown, and I know the difference between an actual gun firing, and a gun on TV. So where were you when I called?”

Santana gave that hesitant look which meant either what she said was going to be a lie, or a reluctant truth. “I was at the shooting range in Revere.”

Quinn wasn’t sure how she felt about that. She had grown up around guns; Russell was the kind of man who had owned a few guns because ‘no government bulldog was going to trample on his constitutional rights’, but she hadn’t been around a gun since Russell moved out of her life. “You own a gun?”

“Two. The one I use at the range stays locked up in my locker,”

“And the other one?”

“Is in a hidden compartment under the bed,” Santana admitted. “But it’s not assembled.”

“What’s the point of that if you’re using it for protection?”

Santana shrugged. “I can put it together in 15 seconds in the dark.”

“I…we’ll talk about that later. Are you sure you’re not a spy?”

Santana stared intensely at her. “What’s your definition of spy?…just kidding, babe, I’m not! You weren’t wearing that earlier? Where’d you go, the gym?” She leaned in to complete her aborted hug as she asked. Santana pulled back, then very deliberately leaned forward and smelled her hair. “Babe, _why_ do you smell like…” she sniffed again, “Chocolate pudding?”

Quinn felt embarrassed just thinking about it. “Because all the butterscotch was taken,” she mumbled.

“All the…?” Santana sniffed again. “You went and talked to Brittany, didn’t you?”

“What…no!” Santana fixed her with a look. Quinn shrank back a little. “How did you know?” she questioned.

Santana tugged on a stray strand of Quinn’s hair. “Because June is chocolate pudding day, and July is Bill Cosby’s birthday, and butterscotch is her favorite pudding,” Santana rolled her eyes. “And I’ve known Brittany since we were 8 years old, and I know how her mind works. So what happened?”

Quinn ducked her head. “She hasn’t been seated yet, for the reception, so I went over to the studio to talk to her.”

Their names were called, and they were shown to their seat. “And?” Santana prodded.

“And…we might have gotten into a fight.”

Santana didn’t do a very good job of hiding hide her smirk. “Yeah? Who won?”

The whole thing was just embarrassing. “She did,” she reluctantly admitted. Santana planted her lips on her forehead. “Want me to go kick her ass for you?” Quinn shook her head. She didn’t care what Brittany did, Quinn was positive that would never happen. “If it makes you uncomfortable, we don’t have to invite her to the wedding.”

“She’s your best friend.”

“And you’re my wife,” Santana said simply. “I care more about your feelings than I do about hers.”

Quinn was still getting used to this Santana. She didn’t imagine that she ever really would. “I don’t mind if she comes. Actually…I want her there.”

“It must have been some talk,” Santana said seriously.

“I just realized that I have nothing to worry about.”

Santana picked up Quinn’s hand, and rubbed her finger over it. “No you don’t,” she agreed. “What’s your poison for tonight? I’m in the mood for ravioli.”

Quinn thought she should be good since she indulged at lunch, so she ordered the Spinach salad, and she and Santana shared the bruschetta appetizer.

After dinner, they were kind of wound up, so they went to a nearby ‘lounge’ to get their dance on. Two drinks in, _Freak me Baby,_ by Silk, started playing which was carte blanche for the two of them to practically go at it in the middle of the floor. Santana sang the lyrics for Quinn, who had somehow managed to go 29 years of life without having heard the song before. “ _Let me lick you up and down, till you say stop. Let me play with your body baby, make you real hot. Let me do all the things, you want me to do. ‘Cause tonight baby, I want to get freaky with you.”_

30 seconds into the song, Quinn was surprised to find that Silk wasn’t a group of lesbians, and was tempted to command Santana to re-record the song for them to play the next time they had sex. When they got to the middle of the song where the guy started talking, Santana switched to speaking Spanish while she ground into Quinn, and it was probably the single-handedly sexiest thing that Quinn had ever been present for. Quinn was contemplating dragging Santana off into the bathroom for a completely unsophisticated bathroom fuck, when the song ended.

“Babe, I need to take a break if we’re not going home now,” Santana panted in her ear. “By the way, my panties? Completely soaked right now.”

Santana pulled away before Quinn could say anything, and Quinn kind of stumbled over to the bar in a daze. Today, had been a day. A really intense day, but Quinn felt so much lighter. She was sad to know that she had hurt Santana, but she was glad that her secret was out. She felt like there had been a tremendous shift in their relationship, and felt, maybe for the first time that things were going to be okay. She didn’t think she was off the hook, and knew she was going to have to do some serious work to regain Santana’s trust, but she was feeling like they had moved to a good place. They were going to be okay.

She caught the bartender’s eye, and he was making his way over when she felt a hand trail around her lower back, before it wrapped around her waist. Quinn started to lean back into the embrace, when a voice said, “She’ll have a black widow. That’s your drink, right?”

Quinn tensed instantly, pulling away. “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

Jenna gave a cocky smile. “Having a good time.” Her eyes quickly took Quinn in. “Maybe not as good a time as you, but _damn,_ you really know how to move, Luce. I bet you’d move even better beneath me.”

“Y-you can’t be here.”

Jenna put a finger to her lips. “And yet, here I am. If I recall correctly, you owe me a dance.”

“I don’t _owe_ you anything,” Quinn snapped. “And I would appreciate it if you backed off of me, please.” Quinn said the last part in her sickeningly sweet tone of voice, a voice that was a trigger warning for anyone who knew her. It was like how a skunk would tilt its tail down before it sprayed, giving you time to back off before it let loose. Quinn was dropping her tail.

Jenna didn’t take the warning. “Listen, sweetie, I don’t know what’s going on with you and your wife, but you _don’t_ want to work it out with Santana Lopez. If you’re going to stray, you need to be with a real woman.”

“And that’s you?” Quinn jeered. Look, I was only being polite to you the other night.”

“Oh, is that what you call it in your world? Being _polite_? Funny, it seemed like you were about to cream in your pants for me. I didn’t realize that that reaction was called ‘polite’.”

Quinn took another step away from her, “I _said_ -,”Quinn’s threat was cut off by the reemergence of Santana. “What’s going on?” she questioned as she took in the scene. Quinn looked from Santana to Jenna. _Shit!_


	16. Taking Care of Business

After the Silk song went off, Santana seriously had to leave the floor because her wife was so damned sexy, and that song brought up some serious childhood nostalgia of the times that she was being baby-sat by her older cousins who thought it was funny to teach her to sing it, because she was too young to understand the actual words that were being sung. Now she did, and damn it if she didn't want to just go at it with Quinn right there. She couldn't believe that Quinn had never heard _Do Me Baby_ before, and that fact made one thing clear: Quinn needed her horizons broadened. Santana seriously needed to kidnap her for the day and educate her on the fine styling of R&B, particularly 90s R&B, and none of that whitewashed commercial success crap that had been raping the airways ever since R&B went mainstream. ( _Blurred Lines_ I'm looking at you).The thought that she had never heard a Boys II Men Song, or Bell Biv Dafoe, it hurt her heart. It was like finding someone who had never watched _Shawshank Redemption_.

Another thing that was also past due: Santana making love to her while speaking to her in Spanish. Dani had been Santana's only Spanish-speaking partner, and having Dani speak to her in Spanish as they'd had sex was an experience like no other. It wasn't just the idea of having a 'foreign' language spoken in her ear; she'd slept with a German speaking woman before, and it hadn't gotten her motor running quite as much. No, Spanish was just a fucking sexy language. French was okay, but really the only other accent that could compare, (in her book), was Italian. That and maybe a Jamaican or an Antillean Creole accent.

Santana looked at herself in the mirror as she washed her hands. She grinned, just thinking about everything. It honestly, didn't seem fair that she got to look this good, that life got to _be_ this good for her. Her boss may have been demanding, but she knew that she had a good job, she liked her coworkers, the pay was decent, and there was room for her to slowly work her way up the ladder. And even if she had the suckiest job in the world, it didn't matter because she got to go home to one of the smartest, most beautiful, daring, and feisty women she knew. It was like she had cheated on the life lottery or something, but she seriously wasn't complaining.

Santana wiped her hands off and left the restroom. On her way back to Quinn, she saw an opening at the bar and ordered a Sam Adams for herself, and a bitch beer for Quinn, some new raspberry flavored Smirnoff concoction. " _Santana_?" a voice questioned familiarly as the two bottles were place in front of her. Santana turned in the wrong direction, so that by the time she turned herself around, the speaker was laughing at her.

"Bryne! How are you? It's been…?"

"Six months," she answered for her. "Wow, you look good; great actually." Bryne's eyes were appraising in one of those ways that made the recipient feel uncomfortable, but Santana was used to it, and she just waited. "You have that I've been having great sex after glow. And you look like you've been having a lot of it." Santana beamed. "Oh my god, 'Tana! It's that girl that you were always mooning over, isn't it? What's her name?"

"Quinn, and Santana Lopez doesn't _moon_."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Is pine a better verb?" Santana rolled her eyes and sipped her beer, a smile smugly on her lips. "I certainly seem to recall a time when you left my bed because she called, and I'm positive I'm not the only one."

"I didn't leave your bed, we were making out on the couch, and we both know it was a good thing that things didn't progress any further than that."

Bryne's eyes twinkled. "You don't think that we'd been good for each other?" she teased.

"I think that the sex would have been fantastic, because the sexual tension between us in phenomenal, and we've got even better mental chemistry, but it would have turned into one of those awful situations where after several years of casually falling into each other's beds, we'd both realize we'd need more, and hate each other for it because we'd never give it to the other."

"It is scary how you do that, but that's so true. How are you two? It has to be more than just great sex, because you two always have great sex, but _this_ look-"

Her smile went all the way to her eyes, and she made sure that Bryne could see the wedding ring. "We got married!"

"Get out! Really? Congratulations!" Bryne smiled warmly, but there was just the smallest tinge of sadness there, too. "It's about damn time, too, cause you weren't being fair to all those poor lonely les and bi chicks who actually felt like they had a chance with you."

"What are you talking about?"

"Don't act like you don't know that you were breaking hearts left and right. Always visible, never available."

Santana just shook her head. "So how are things on your end? How was…"

"Paris? Il était bon. Sans incident."

"Glad to hear that all was well. Are you back in Boston for good?"

"I'm in Boston for the moment," Bryne answered. "You know how this goes. I'm on my way to Tucson actually."

"Wait, that's you?"

"Paulson must have called you, then. You're not going?"

"No way; that's me and Quinn's honeymoon." Santana took a happy swallow. "We're going to Cabo."

"Now what made you do that?"

Santana frowned. "What?"

"Go somewhere nice? That's a waste of money if I ever heard of one; we both know that you're not going to leave the room."

They shared a laugh. "Oh, speaking of her and _that_ , I have to get back to the wife."

"It was good running into you. We should do it on purpose, sometime."

"We should. You have my number. Don't go ghost on me."

Bryne returned the smile. "I'll try not."

Santana turned away from the bar and surveyed the dance area, unsurprised that Quinn wasn't still on the floor; she didn't like to dance alone. Her eyes traveled down the bar, tensing when she saw a familiar head of curly, black hair, cringing when her voice carried, proving it _was_ Jenna Healy. Fuck if she wanted the drama of dealing with her tonight. But she seemed busy talking up some poor, unfortunate blonde. Santana wondered if she could find Quinn quickly and then maybe they could sneak out…but wait, was that _Quinn_? Oh hell, no!

Santana stalked over to them, interrupting what looked like an uncomfortable conversation between Jenna and Quinn. "What's going on?" Santana questioned. Jenna was standing way too close to her wife, and she really needed to back the hell up.

Jenna gave Santana a disdainful look. "Speak of the devil, and Satan will appear," Jenna said with an eye roll. Santana frowned. They'd been talking about her? "Why is it that you always seem to find yourself chasing after my seconds, Lopez?"

"The fuck you say?" Santana demanded. "It's Fabray-Lopez, and you really need to step back from my wife."

Jenna looked from Quinn to Santana and as comprehension dawned on her, she started laughing. "Oh, no fucking way! This is fucking priceless! _This_ is your wife?" Jenna gestured. "Like, she's _yours_?"

Santana took a menacing step forward. "Yes, so back off before I backs you off."

Jenna took a jaunty step backwards in a way that said she was taunting her, throwing her hands up mockingly. "Down Kudjo; you're foaming at the mouth. I didn't realize that there was someone out there desperate enough to marry you, and I certainly didn't realize that this was your wife."

Quinn tugged on Santana's arm. "San, let's go."

"I mean, she wasn't acting very married when we met," Jenna added with that simpering smirk.

Santana ignored Quinn. "What's that mean?"

"Nothing," Jenna replied, "just that she was all up on this." She threw a look at Quinn, "Babe, when you were talking about that wife at home, I didn't know you meant Santana. Now I know why you were all on me." Her smug face turned back to Santana. "I mean if I was married to you, I would be pleading for someone else to fuck me, too. I always knew you couldn't handle your shit, Lopez."

"Santana, don't waste your time on this skank. Let's go home."

Santana's eyes simmered, her whole body tensing. "I handle mine alright, bitch, unlike you who leaves girls wondering if they've even been fucked after you're done. That is until they find out that you left them burning a few weeks later."

"Is that what the girls I _dumped_ say? Pity that you always seem to find yourself picking up my seconds." Jenna turned to Quinn, before she looked Santana over, a nasty smirk curling on her lips. "I'm sorry," she said to Quinn.

"For what?" she snapped.

"That I didn't get to show you what it feels like to be with a _real_ woman." Jenna ran a finger along Quinn's jawline. "The next time you need a reminder of what you're missing, you know where to find me."

For a second, Santana thought about letting it go. She looked at the vice like grip she had on the two bottles. Her eyes flickered up. Took a mental picture. She sat her Sam Adams on the counter. The full Smirnoff bottle, stayed in her hand. With a cold calculation, she poured some of the Sam Adams into the Smirnoff bottle, wrapped her hand around the neck, and brought the palm of her other hand down swiftly against the top. The bottom of the bottle broke off, leaving a jagged edge behind. Santana shifted her hold on the broken bottle, jagged edge turned toward Jenna. "Touch her again, bitch!"

"San!"

Jenna's eyes widened suddenly, and she backed up, but she pretended like she was unconcerned with the weapon in Santana's hand. "What're you going to do with that, Lopez?" She taunted. "I know that's for show, because if you knew how to handle your business, you and I wouldn't even be having this conversation right now."

Quinn quickly stepped between Santana and Jenna, or more specifically between the broken bottle and Jenna. "First off, bitch, it's _Fabray_ -Lopez. Second, she knows how to handle her business, so I would recommend you picking your pride up off of the floor, and walking away before she goes off. And third, I wasn't about to go home with you. I told you to go, remember?"

Jenna scratched her head. "Now that doesn't sound like you…what was it that you said, Luce, something about you fucking me so good that I wouldn't remember my name?" Santana's eyes flickered, but she resisted looking at Quinn. "You didn't seem too concerned about your _wife_ then, so keep telling yourself _that_ , _bitch_."

Santana lunged at the word, but Quinn was in the way, and Jenna stepped out of reach, and a couple of threatening guys who looked like bouncers finally seemed to be getting the lead out of their asses as they realized they might have a situation. Santana didn't care, though. "Call her a bitch again, pinche puta, and you'll be picking your teeth up off the floor! I gots your bitch right here! No me jodas!"

"Oh, now there's that temper," Jenna taunted. "You really should learn some _control._ "

Quinn kept Santana pressed against the bar, trying to keep her from surging forward. "Santana!" Santana barely heard her though. She was aware enough of Quinn to not hurt her, but other than that, she had eyes only on Jenna. Bryne stepped into the small space between the three. "Santana, rührt euch."she said, quietly, before turning to Jenna. "You must _really_ have a death wish, Jenna. And I mean, really, because you are honestly taking your own life in your hands right now, does she look like she's playing?"

As Bryne talked, Quinn's hands moved to cup Santana's face, forcing her to look at her. Santana gave Quinn a glance, but it was her smell more than anything that caused the red to recede. She looked down at the broken bottle in her hand, remembering how she had so carefully sized the girl up. She let Quinn take the bottle from her, and watched it drop to the floor before Quinn led the two of them out of the bar.

Outside, Santana jerked her hand from Quinn's grasp. "Mierda!" she shouted into the night. She started walking, not really caring about the direction, she just needed to be away right this second. She guessed that she was walking fairly fast, because she heard Quinn scrambling to keep up.

"San?"

Santana turned on her heels so quickly she almost ran into her. "Jenna, Quinn?" she shouted. Her whole body was shaking. She balled her fist just to keep them from trembling. She wanted to punch a wall. Better even, she wanted to fucking punch that damn bitch's face in. "You were going to fuck _Jenna Healy_? Out of all the fucking…unbelievable." Santana pointed one of those trembling fingers at her. "You said it was a bartender. You didn't say that you almost went home with Jenna fucking-," she pressed her lips together tightly to keep from saying anything else, her fists clinching, unclenching, clinching at her side. She recognized she was in a rage, and she didn't want to say something that she'd regret. She counted down from five, and when that didn't work she counted down from 10. 20, but the rage just seemed to grow.

She dropped to her knees in a nearby alcove, and anxiously started chanting more than praying, "Dios te salve, Maria. Llena eres de gracia." She paused because the words just ran off of her tongue, so she started her Hail Mary over again, but in a different language. "Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus. Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen."

It took more concentration to finish the prayer in Latin. Concentration that diverted her attention away from the rage that was slowly turning to simple anger, which was something she could manage. Angry Santana didn't hold broken glass bottles in their hand as their eyes scanned over all the major pulse points in the body, and seriously considered cutting Jenna in a place that would assure she'd bleed out. Slowly. Santana couldn't remember the last time she'd actually flown into a rage; she didn't like it. Didn't like feeling out of control.

She silently said another Hail Mary in Latin. She wanted to laugh that this was what managed to calm her. She couldn't remember the last time she had done penance, much less gone to confessional. She wasn't sure why; that was always her favorite part of church. She used to happily spout off her transgressions, confessing them eagerly. She had been told more than once that she didn't enter confession with a humbling spirit, and sometimes got extra penance for being prideful, and yet she had always liked confession far better than she liked actually sitting through sermons.

Santana slowly opened her eyes and looked at her hands clinched and balled into her lap. She unclenched them, breathing out slowly. Her eyes flickered to her left, and was surprised to see Quinn was kneeling beside her. Even more surprised to find that Quinn was touching her, that Quinn had placed a hand on her arm. She watched Quinn's hand sneak to slip between her own.

"I'm sorry," Quinn whispered. Santana's eyes flickered up to catch Quinn's, to acknowledge her presence. "I fucked up." Santana couldn't bring herself to say anything, so she continued to stare. "I was going to go home with her, b-but only because she r-reminded me of you. And I was going to leave with her, but the bartender, who I'd been talking to all night, told me that I shouldn't, and that I should go home with her instead. Santana, I promise, I didn't kiss her, and I didn't have sex with her. Jenna or the bar tender. We had drinks, we flirted, and we danced. That's it."

"With Jenna?" Santana was surprised by the sound of her own voice. She sounded so very calm it was startling to her. Quinn nodded. Santana gave an abrupt laugh. "Out of everyone in this city…," Her mouth snapped shut abruptly. "I just want to go home. Can we do that?"

Quinn quickly nodded. "Please," she begged.

It was a very quiet and lonely ride back to Quinn's apartment. Santana held her hand and was gently rubbing her thumb against the back of it, but in a very absentminded way; like she didn't realize she was doing it. Quinn turned on the radio to help alleviate the noise that the silence created, but it did nothing to distract her from what had happened. Quinn had questions. She had never seen anyone break a bottle like that. Where did she learn that from? When did Santana learn Latin? Did she just know…what had she been saying? She caught the word 'father' and 'holy mother' and 'death', so…'Hail Mary' maybe? Did she just know that prayer in Latin, or could she speak it, too?

In less than two months Quinn had heard Santana speak five different languages. Where had she learned to speak all of them? Did she know more? What had that girl said to Santana? When she broke that bottle there was a cold, calculated look to her features. What did that mean? What did this mean for them? That was the real question. That was the question that wouldn't disappear, that kept peaking its head up at every other question, demanding attention.

She had messed up. She had really, really messed up, and despite Santana saying earlier that she wasn't going to hold her to something she already knew about, this wasn't the same because Quinn had lied. Well, Quinn told herself, she didn't lie, she'd shortened the truth, but it was what was missing in the abbreviated version of the story that she had told Santana that had almost caused her wife to go bat shit in a bar. Santana had told her just hours ago that she was going to fight, but then she wasn't as pissed off as she had been then, either.

Quinn couldn't say who attacked who, just that as soon as they were through the door to her apartment that they had affixed themselves to each other; their lips sealing to each other's, their hands attached to each other desperate for contact. There was one split second where Santana drew back, but when Quinn pulled her back to her she stayed. Quinn needed to be close to Santana in this moment, to know that Santana still wanted her, to know that Quinn hadn't lost her, to show Santana that she was enough for her, to try to erase Jenna's words because they flat out weren't true. Whatever else might have been lacking in their relationship, Santana had never left her unsatisfied when it came to their bedroom habits.

Quinn tried to relay this to her, as well as things that they hadn't ever said out loud. She wanted Santana to know that she was hers for the taking. That Jenna didn't matter, that no one actually mattered, because Santana was the only one who had ever got her heart beating like this, that she was the only one that made her feel like this, that they belonged to and with each other. (God she hoped that Santana still felt like they belonged with each other). That being with Santana was one of the best things she'd ever known.

They didn't make love. Not unless you took that in the literal sense, as if they were going at it in the hopes of manufacturing the emotion, because there was nothing sweet or tender about what they were doing. It was passionate, only in its intensity. It was very nearly violent. Santana slammed Quinn back into the wall, Quinn pushed Santana down against the counter, they rolled into the coffee table, ignoring the contents that fell down on top of them.

And it went on. From the door, to the couch, to the floor, to the kitchen, to the bedroom. Teeth bit into flesh, hands slapped against skin, barely a word was uttered; they communicated mostly through grunts. Orgasms were collected as trophies. Quinn lost count at how many she gave and received, and for once it didn't matter because not a single one of them was shared.

When they had exhausted themselves, they collapsed on their backs on the bed, breathing heavily. Their bodies were marked from their previous activities. Quinn's hair was a mess, her lips swollen, their clothes strewn about the apartment, ripped apart because actually taking them off had taken too much time. When Santana's breathing returned to normal, she slid underneath the covers, rolled over onto her side, and curled up on the far side of the bed, her back to Quinn. Cautiously, Quinn reached around to touch her. Santana flinched away from the embrace at the first feel of Quinn's hand, but then almost seemed to force herself to stay put beneath the touch. That hurt Quinn more than if she had just pushed Quinn's hand off of her. "I'm sorry, Santana."

"Good night, Quinn," Santana said stiffly.

The bed suddenly seemed very cold and unforgiving. Quinn felt almost as if something had broken between the two of them; something that she couldn't identify and therefore didn't have any idea on how to go about fixing it. "Good night, Santana," she said, softly, kissing Santana on her shoulder blade, before she got up from the bed, picking up her pillow on the way. She got a blanket from the closet and settled in on the couch, willing sleep to take her away from everything she was feeling right now.

But she had no such luck, because sleep evaded her. She couldn't help but think about the day through the lens of her parents' marriage. Quinn worried constantly about turning into the woman her mother had been (not new Judy, but the old Judy, the one who was so concerned with obeying her husband that she agreed to throw her 16 year old daughter out onto the street). She had spent so much of her childhood worried that she'd grow up to be that shell of a human, when it turned out that she was always more in danger of turning into Russell. Did that mean she was going to turn Santana into her mother?

Quinn wasn't sure what she was hearing at first, but then when she realized what it was, the sound broke her heart. Santana wasn't being loud, but in the stillness of the apartment, Quinn could hear her sobbing quietly into her pillow. This was by no means the first time she'd heard Santana cry. They had been friends for years and despite her hard exterior, she was actually far more sensitive than most gave her credit for. Hell, even when people saw her with tears in her eyes, they quickly forgot that she was just as sensitive, maybe even more, than everyone else. I mean this was the girl that cried over losing her tanning privileges despite the fact she had a permanent tan.

She had seen Santana in just about every state of distress before, but never before had she heard _this_ cry, and never before had she been the cause of it. She hadn't felt this bad since the day that she'd given Beth up. She never imagined that she'd feel that bad ever again. Santana hadn't wanted her to even touch her. And she was crying. Because of something she had done. Because she had gone out to a bar, and not forgot that she was married, but remembered, and brushed it aside. She gave Jenna the fuel to insert herself in her marriage this way. She had done this to them.

Quinn didn't know what she could possibly do to fix it. Her parents never got into fights, because her mom had always done what Russell had told her to do. Quinn had never been under the illusion that there was love in her parents' marriage, just a sense of duty. Russell was overbearing and inconsiderate, and Judy had survived by having no expectations and self-medicating. Quinn never really saw her mother as having feelings, of being a real person, but certainly she had once been, because she was now. She had gone from someone who had demanded the genealogy of every person she talked to, to pretending not to notice that her daughter's fiancée was going down on her while they were on the phone. But when she was with Russell, Judy had disappeared. Was she bringing out the very worst in Santana, just like her father had in Judy?

She wasn't sure if she was doing the right thing when she got up from the couch an hour later, and went into the bedroom. From the sudden quiet that greeted her when she entered into the space she could tell that Santana was still awake. "Santana?" she called quietly. She got no response. "San?" She crawled onto the bed, and touched Santana's arm, felt her tremble beneath her. "Come here," Quinn coaxed.

"Quinn." God that sound in her voice. "Please, don't touch me. I just want to be by myself right now. Please just leave me alone?"

Quinn lifted her hand from Santana's arm, and started to back up off the bed when she stopped herself. The fact that the couch seemed so comfortable at the moment and that going back to it _felt_ like something that she should do probably meant that it wasn't something she should do. Quinn lay down on her side, flush against Santana's back, wrapping her arm around her wife's waist. "No," she said stubbornly. "I won't."

Quinn's words brought out a choked sob from Santana's lips, a sound that hit Quinn in her gut. But she didn't try to extract herself from Quinn's grip, and she didn't pull away when Quinn tightened her hold, either. No other words were exchanged between the two. They both ended up crying themselves to sleep. But when she woke up the next morning, Santana was still locked in her semi-embrace, and Quinn was still holding on.


	17. The Importance of Breakfast

_New York, 2016_

“Quinn! What are you doing? I’m horny, come back to bed!”

Quinn rolled her eyes although Santana couldn’t see her. “You’re always horny,” she called back to her.

“Which is why you should never get out of bed!”

Quinn put the top back on the jar of jelly, retwisted the bag of bread, ripped off a paper towel, and poured herself a glass of skim milk. She was about to return to the bedroom when her eyes caught sight of an envelope resting on the counter with Santana’s name on it. She paused to stare at it, but resisted the urge to be nosy and read the letter, slowly returning to the bedroom. She had only gotten out of the bed because she had thought that Santana was asleep, but apparently she was up now.

“Where’s mine?” Santana questioned at the sight of Quinn and her PB&J sandwich.

Quinn blew her a kiss. “Still in the kitchen, waiting for you to fix it.”

Santana’s lips formed a pout. “Why don’t you ever make me breakfast?” she questioned, curiously, as if she just didn’t comprehend it.

Quinn carefully crawled on to the bed, managing not to spill any of her drink. “Why would I make you breakfast?”

Santana gave a seductive grin. “Because I’m awesome, and I make you come really, really hard.”

Quinn didn’t realize that she was smiling. “There’s that.”

Santana leaned back comfortably against the headboard. “So breakfast?”

“I’m not about to cook for you, Santana. Get your butt up and fix something for yourself.”

“That is so rude, Fabray! You’re in my place, you fixed something for you…”

Quinn kicked her legs open, spreading them wide and subsequently shutting Santana up. “Well, if you’re that hungry, I’ve got something for you to eat.”

Santana’s eyes traced the curve of Quinn’s leg up to her center where she was wearing a pair of pink panties. “When’d you put those on?”

She licked off the excess peanut butter. “When I got up to make this sandwich.”

“Why’d you put them on?”

“Because civilized people don’t walk around naked.”

Santana crawled in between her legs and hovered over her. “I think civilization is overrated,” she said. Santana leaned in for a kiss, then thinking better of it changed direction and bit off the top right corner of Quinn’s sandwich. Quinn protested as she moaned appreciatively. “Man, that’s good,” Santana mumbled through her chewing. “You want to make me one?”

“Not particularly,” Quinn said, thoughtfully chewing her own bite. A large drop of jelly fell onto her thigh. Quinn moved to wipe it away, but with a smirk Santana held up a finger. “I got it,” she said, before bowing her head, and drawing her tongue along the length of her thigh, scooping up the spilled jelly with her tongue. Above her, Quinn moaned.

Santana let her tongue continue on its path until it met the bottom of Quinn’s underwear. “San,” Quinn whimpered. Santana placed a kiss on top of the underwear, before playfully tugging on the bottom with her teeth.

“Hmmm…?” Santana kissed her panties in the spot where her clit should be. “You eat that,” she grabbed Quinn’s ass to pull her into a better positon, “And I’ll eat this.”

Quinn shivered in expectation. Santana lowered her head, and inhaled. “You smell so good, Quinn. Like if I made Amortentia, this is one of the smells that you would smell in the potion.” Santana ran her nose along the center of Quinn’s soaked undergarment. “I love how you get so wet for me, baby.”

Quinn gripped the sheets. “W-what potion was Amortentia?” she questioned, as Santana slowly pulled her underwear down her legs.

“Sooo wet,” Santana cooed, spreading Quinn’s legs wide. “It’s the spell for luck.” Santana ran a teasing tongue along the top, planting kisses on the fleshy lips, and on the mons, just to watch Quinn squirm. She held Quinn’s hips down so she couldn’t buck up.

“N-no, the spell for luck was Fe…shit…” Santana licked at the moisture that was wetting her area.

“I don’t think there was a Fe-shit potion in the book. I should probably double check that.”

“Felix Felicius.”

Santana shook her head with her tongue out. “Then it was the shrinking solution.” Santana began to nibble on her left inner thigh.

“T-that one didn’t have a name. Oh fuck, San!”

Santana chuckled. “You like that, huh?”

Quinn grunted in response. “If you don’t quit playing and just fuck me!”

Santana bit her other thigh. “You’ll do what?” she teased. “ _Not_ come?” She gave another teasing lick touching her in all of the places except the right one. “Okay, _don’t_ come for me baby.”

“You’re such a bitch.”

“You love it, though.”

“Love!” Quinn shouted triumphantly, just as Santana’s tongue slid over and around her clit. “F-fuck.”

“Still not coming for me?”

“Amor means love. It’s the love….oh fuck! God…there!” Santana retreated. “No! Santana!”

She chuckled at her frustration. “You know, I always knew you’d be calling me God someday.” She gave her another long lick, teasing her entrance and venturing further south, before she let her tongue wrap completely around Quinn’s clit. “That I’d have you on your back and begging in supplication.” Santana pulled her tongue back, but was kind enough to let her fingers slowly massage her clit. “Oh wait,” she paused, “I forgot, you’re not that into that.” Santana abruptly thrust inside of Quinn.

Quinn breathed out, trying to maintain some composure. “B-Brittany,” she panted.

Santana’s fingers stilled. “No…Santana.”

“Not that into it with Brittany.”

Santana caressed Quinn’s inner walls, but paused when the words settled with her. “Wait? So we could have been doing this in high school?”

“Just shut up and fuck me!” Quinn commanded. Santana brought her face down over Quinn’s clit and huffed on it, surprised, and delighted, to see that it made Quinn’s legs tremble. She did it again, but this time she thrust into her at the same time, letting her thumb touch the bonus spot. Quinn’s back arched off of the bed, and she let out a sound that was somewhere between a squeak, a moan, and some noise Santana had never heard before.

That sound alone would have ruined Santana’s underwear…if she’d been wearing any.

“You don’t like threesomes Quinnie-pooh?” she questioned, her fingers alternating between thrusting, and scissoring. “I think it’d be hot. You and Britt 69ing each other while I take her up the ass…”

Quinn was suddenly not beneath Santana anymore. “What happened?” she asked the air. “Quinn!” The bathroom door slammed closed. Santana rolled over, and ended up rolling onto the PB&J sandwich that Quinn had abruptly abandoned. “Shit!” she cursed, as she hopped up off of the bed. She walked up to the door and knocked on it. “Quinn? Babe? I was just joking.” Quinn was silent. Santana knocked again. “Baby, come back to bed.”

Santana listened and got no response. “Quinn, I’m not about to beg…” Apparently that wasn’t true. “Stop being a woman, Quinn. You better not be masturbating in there. I earned that orgasm!” Santana listened for any sounds within. “Babe, if you come out you can wear Gianna. I know you like that!”

Santana groaned, because seriously were the two of them really not capable of spending a weekend together without fighting? Santana thought that things had been changing between them, but here she was banging on a door, and hell if she knew why. Unless it was the joke about the threesome. She did that all the time, though.

After five more minutes of being ignored, Santana said fuck it, and left Quinn to pout. She located the squashed sandwich, and contemplated eating it before she wrapped it in an old test paper and threw it in the garbage can. She then tore off the dirty sheets from her bed. She made up the bed with fresh sheets, wondering what the hell was with Quinn and all her damned mood swings. Was she pregnant again? On her period? Going through menopause early?

Santana was stuck in between whether she should get her-self off, or go back to sleep, when Quinn came out of the bathroom. Santana watched her crawl back onto the bed. She shot Quinn a questioning look. “Are you done with your temper tantrum?”

“I’d be in your love potion?” Quinn asked. 

“Your smell,” Santana corrected. “Any chance that while you were in the bathroom you saw the error of your ways and decided that you wanted to make me breakfast?”

“Why do you keep bringing up breakfast?”

“Because it’s 8:00 in the morning, on a Saturday, and I just watched you eat a sandwich, and I halfway got to eat you, and I’m hungry, that’s why.”

“Where is my sandwich?” Quinn said, looking around for it.

Santana sighed, rolling over. “I’m going back to bed. Wake me in 3 hours.”

“No, don’t go back to sleep!”

Santana squinted at her suspiciously. “Why?”

“Well, we’re already up. Let’s talk.”

Her look only grew more suspicious. “I’m almost certain that we don’t do that.”

Quinn tugged Santana into a sitting position. “Don’t you think we should fix that? I mean we used to talk about everything.”

“Yes, but then we started pretending that we don’t have feelings for each other, so we stopped talking about anything.”

Quinn huffed, looking cross. “God, Santana. Why do you have to make everything so difficult? Do you understand how aggravating it is to be around you sometimes?” Quinn questioned, pertly.

Santana leaned forward. “At least I don’t have a stick up my ass, Fabray, and yours must be rammed up there pretty high because I’ve been in that pretty ass, and still never managed to find it. I think you should let me look for it again.”

Quinn blushed because she had been drunk, and…it hadn’t been completely unpleasant. Santana leaned back over and started sucking on Quinn’s neck. “So, you going to tell me what that little storm out was about?” Santana questioned. “You’re starting to get as bad as Berry.”

“It felt like I was starting my period,” Quinn lied, and Santana quickly called her on it.

“Bull. You start your period next week and you don’t ever come down when you’re on your period. No sex = no Santana.”

“It’s not like that at all,” Quinn denied.

Santana just brushed off her lie, because it was exactly like that. Their being together without sex being involved would be a little too much like they were dating, and God forbid they ever do that. Quinn was too fond of pretending that she actually liked whoever she was dating at the moment. Normally Santana didn’t care, she usually had someone else to keep her occupied when Quinn wasn’t, but right now she didn’t, and hadn’t for at least two months. “Ok,” Santana said easily. “So I get it, you don’t like threesomes. Noted.” Santana gave her nipple a hard squeeze. “But you like this, right?”

Quinn whimpered in agreement. Santana was rough with her breasts when she went down on her this time, skillfully working Quinn up quickly, before either of them could say something that would cause a fight before Santana achieved an orgasm. After they were both satisfied, Santana attempted to kiss Quinn on the lips, and like usual, Quinn pushed her away. Shaking her head, Santana got up to rinse her mouth out with mouthwash, and brush her teeth. Santana stepped out of the bathroom with her toothbrush between her lips. “I don’t get what the big deal is. It’s _your_ taste, Q. Haven’t you ever tasted yourself?” Quinn didn’t say anything, and Santana rolled her eyes. “Do you kiss your boyfriends’ after you go down on them?”

“ _If_ I went down on them, I might, but gross.”

“You’re such a prude.” Santana went back into the bathroom to spit and rinse. She wiped her mouth, before returning to the bedroom and lying beside her on the bed. “Either that or very gay.”

“I’m not gay,” she protested immediately.

“Hmmm…” Santana let her fingers trace over Quinn’s skin. “And here I thought being a female who has sex with other females is what makes you gay.” Santana started to kiss along her neck and collarbone, shivering slightly when Quinn’s fisted her hair. “Guess I’m wrong.”

“I’m bi at most, if that, and I’ve only had sex with you.”

“And Rachel.”

Quinn gave a comical look around. “I told you not to mention that! I was drunk! And me and Rachel only made out.”

“Rachel and I.”

“That doesn’t count.”

“But I count?” Santana prompted.

Quinn hummed. “Definitely.”

Santana smiled a smile Quinn didn’t see. “Good.”

“Hey San?”

“Umm…yes, Quinn,” Santana said, mocking Quinn’s voice.

“That thing I wanted to talk about?”

“I thought we don’t talk to each other about ‘things’.”

Quinn brought Santana’s gaze to her own. “This is something different. Mercedes asked me if I wanted to go on tour with her this summer.”

“Are you telling me this because you’re going to fuck her?”

“Geez, do you have to be so crude?”

Santana pulled back to look at her with one of those smirks she knew Quinn hated. “I don’t have to be, no. I choose to. Is that a yes? You know you don’t have to have my permission, you can boink whoever you want. I totally support you.”

Quinn pushed Santana away. “Could you be serious for once, Santana? I’m going to graduate in three months.”

Santana leaned back in. “Yes, I’m aware.”

“And?”

Santana trailed kisses down Quinn’s abdomen. “And what?”

“That’s all you have to say?”

Santana drew back, this time irritated. “What am I supposed to say, Quinn? I graduate at the end of the summer; what of it?”

The realization that this conversation simply wasn’t going to happen settled heavily on Quinn. “This is a mistake,” she said. Why did Santana have to be so frustrating? “This…us…I’m about to graduate from college, and I’m still doing this senseless screwing around with you. I am in a relationship with a serious, well-bred young man, and yet,”

Santana pulled Quinn back down. “And yet you’re in my bed, where we will spend one fucking good weekend, and I do mean that literally.”

“Is sex the only thing you ever think about?”

Santana only grimaced. “I think about a lot of things,” she answered, “But sex is the only one of them that you respond to. What does graduation mean?”

“That it’s time to start getting serious about life. That it’s time to be looking into jobs, and internships, and…serious relationships.”

Santana fell back against the headboard, reaching into her side drawer for a nail file. “Is this where you tell me you’re looking for less of a Marilynn and more of a Jackie?”

“What does that mean?”

Santana realized that Quinn didn’t the correlation. If Quinn had only watched _Legally Blonde: The Musical_ she would realize how formulaic she sounded. “Marilyn Monroe and Jackie Kennedy? Legally Blonde the Musical? Don’t tell me that you haven’t seen it.”

“ _I_ didn’t live with Rachel Berry for three years, remember. Can we please have an adult conversation, here?”

“Sure,” Santana said, rather obnoxiously in Quinn’s opinion. She waved her hand with the file in it. “Adult away.”

“What are your plans?”

Santana got a serious look on her face, her eyes darting around. “I would tell you, but I’d have to kill you.”

“Santana! Can you at least try to be serious?”

“Who says I wasn’t?” Quinn gave Santana a simmering look. “I haven’t decided yet, but I’ve got a few options.”

Quinn’s thoughts instantly went to other blondes in other cities, and the packet that was sitting on Santana’s table. “Like Brittany in Boston?”

Santana frowned. “Who said anything about Brittany and Boston?”

“I saw the letter on the table in the kitchen.”

“What the hell are you doing going through my stuff? I could have sworn that it was addressed to Santana Lopez.”

“It’s sitting on the counter,” Quinn stressed. “I didn’t think it was a secret. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t think I had to. And not that it’s your business, but just so you know, that’s not an admission packet, it’s archive information that I requested for a project, but since you asked, yes, I did think about going to Boston College.”

“To be with Brittany.”

“To be in a city with someone I love. I realized I’m not a pack it all up and move off into the wild blue yonder kind of gal. I like companionship.”

Quinn was almost positive she knew what kind of companionship Santana was referring to. “Are you two still having sex?” This was blurted out without consideration, and like most word vomit, it was not nicely received.

“How is that any of your business?”

“I tell you who I’m sleeping with! It’s just simple consideration. I don’t know about you, but I don’t like the idea of catching an STD.”

Santana scooted off the bed. “I’m going to go take a shower since it’s fairly evident I’m not going to go back to sleep. And just so you know, I’ve only slept with you in weeks, but thanks for implying that I’m a whore.”

Santana let the bathroom door slam closed, not caring in the least whether or not Quinn was still in her bedroom when she got out. She took her time just to give Quinn extra time to pack up, but she was still in the room when Santana got out of the shower. “I would have thought you’d be gone,” Santana said, strutting over to her dresser to pick out something to wear. She didn’t feel like leaving her room today, and if Quinn hadn’t lost her mind, she wouldn’t have left her bed today.

“I wasn’t implying that you were a whore, Santana. I’m sorry.”

“What is this about? We haven’t talked about anything weightier then what we want on our pizza for the past three years, and suddenly this. What do you want Quinn? I can read minds, but it just makes it so much easier if you just spill and ease off the head games.”

“Martin asked me to marry him.”

Santana blinked. “Congratulations.” She turned toward the TV. “Movie, or television?”

“Did you hear me?”

“As I am in full possession of two ears, I do believe that I did. Netflix or TV?”

“That’s all you’ve got to say?”

“You’ve been heading full steam towards Stepford as long as I’ve known you; I’m not surprised that you’re going to marry your little asshat.”

“His name is martin, and it’s called stability, Santana, and growing up. Try it sometime.”

“I bet Professor Patches’ wife and your mother felt real stable knowing that their husbands held lukewarm receptions for them, at best, and had a wandering eye for younger girls. But hey, it worked out real well for you mother, maybe it will for you to. Why do you insist on being a walking cliché? You’re like the poster child for the WASP module. When will you get that there is no perfect life, no perfect family, no perfect anything? There’s just people, being people, and people are inherently imperfect.”

As usual when it came to Quinn and Santana, what she’d said had struck a chord, which caused Quinn’s anger to rise. “ _I’m_ a cliché? Santana, you adopted cliché in middle school, perfected it in high school, and are thoroughly living it. You think I’m too passionate? What are you passionate about? What, other than your libido, wakes you up every morning? You piggybacked on everyone else’s dream until you gave up and settled for the most mediocre and underachieving college degree in existence! How dare you mock me for wanting a little bit of comfort, of security? At least I come by it honest. When are you going to stop using your more powerful and successful friends and get somewhere on your own?”

Santana tilted her head to the side, giving Quinn an indecipherable look. “Let’s get correct about something right now. I don’t _use_ my more powerful and successful friends. I stand behind them. Don’t act like you’re successes propelled me to the top when I was the one who was pushing you up from the bottom in the first place. But no you felt so fucking entitled that you didn’t even turn around to tell me ‘thank you’. I didn’t step on Rachel’s coattails, I gave her a reality check. Little soft, squeaky Berry would have never made it anywhere in New York if she didn’t have the bitches like me showing her what she would be up against. And if you’re referring to _Funny Girl_ , I had just as much right to audition for the part of her understudy, as she had to audition for the role in the first place. What, Berry can audition for the role of Maria, but I’m outside of my range auditioning for Fanny?

“I _helped_ Rachel practice for her audition, I watched out for her, me and Kurt cooked and made sure that she stayed fed, was there for her every fucking day, let her cry on me when she found out she was pregnant, and held her hand after Finn died, so why _wouldn’t_ I audition for that role when I found out it was available? It’s convenient how people can forget how many times I stood in for them, or came to their rescue when they needed it, because then they don’t have to feel bad, about not being by my side when I needed support.

“Everyone thought it was _so_ horrible how badly everyone picked on Kurt, but not one person spoke up when Finn outed me to the whole state, not even Kurt. No, instead after it happened I had to sit through the most patronizing display of privilege I had ever been privy to, until this very moment where you have the actual audacity to tell me that I don’t take my life seriously when as soon as you leave here, you’re going to rush off into the arms of your bland, pretty boy boyfriend, who offers you perfection at the very cheap cost of killing who you really are inside. Don’t tell me that I don’t have a concept of reality when I live it every day, while you only pretend to.

“So yes, Quinn, I mock the very notion of this world that you seem to aspire to because you think that you get it all on your own, when really I know exactly what it takes for you to have it, how much dirty lies lie beneath the clean exterior, and I don’t buy into that garbage you’re trying to sell me. You know what’s honest to me? An orgasm. It’s the most honest thing that a person can experience. The only time that I feel like you know how to be honest with me is when you’re calling my name and _begging_ me not to stop. The only time you allow me to express my feelings is when we’re in bed.

“So the next time you want to ride _me_ about ‘getting somewhere on my own’, just remember that you lied to get into your sorority and every moment you pretend to be perfect Quinn Fabray, your daddy paid for your college education, your teacher’s set you up with your internship and probably your first job, and you used your best friend to do all the dirty work in order to keep your own hands clean. Remember that, and _then_ come back and tell me how you did it _all by yourself_.”

It was only par for the course, because of course Santana was able to hit her at exactly the right spots. Quinn wanted to slap her. Instead she walked out.

New York was still too big, too dirty, and too chaotic for her, but she was finally beginning to get used to the city from her numerous visits. Not from her visits with Santana, because those mostly stayed inside, but Rachel always wanted to show her some place new, and Kurt, Blaine, and Mercedes often took her to their spots. Since high school, her and Mercedes’ relationship had improved considerably, so much so that Mercedes had asked her if she wanted to come on tour with her this summer. She really, really wanted to go, not just because the thought of it all was amazing, but because she wanted the opportunity to further develop her relationship with her friend. 

When Quinn had been pregnant with Beth, Mercedes had been non-judgmental and accepting of her. Her parents had been kind, without being pitying, and her brother, Michael, kept her laughing whenever he came home from school. After Beth was born, her life had picked up pretty much where it left off, but now that they weren’t at McKinley, it had been a joy just getting to know each other again. Being around Mercedes was relaxing in a way that they had never been with Santana. Even though the two shared similar (but not the same) personalities, and had overlapping tastes, things were far less complicated with Mercedes.

They shared a faith, and had similar values, and although Mercedes _loved_ to gossip, she was also really good at keeping your secrets. She really liked the idea of spending the whole summer with her, but the petty part of Quinn was somewhat jealous because even though she didn’t have a career so much as she had just enough to keep the lights on in her apartment, she was doing what she wanted to do, and not what was expected of her. Quinn couldn’t say the same. She would have loved to pursue an acting career, but knew she never would. It just wasn’t something that was _allowed_ of a Fabray.

Whenever she thought like that, she tried to figure out what she was still trying to prove, and who she was trying to prove it to. She didn’t really talk to anyone from McKinley High save for a few people in Glee, her mother was a wreck, and her father was on his way to siring another child, if he hadn’t already. Maybe she was trying to prove that she was better than Frannie, because Frannie was still the perfect daughter, even if she didn’t have a perfect family to belong to. Or maybe she had this need to somehow redeem the Fabray name. The importance of the name had been hammered into her head for so long that she couldn’t forget it, and there was still that part of her that thought that maybe if she was perfect enough, her father would want her again, her mother would sober up, and somehow their family wouldn’t be the shambles that it currently was.

Martin was a picture module of who she was expected to be with. He was going to go into politics, he was from a prominent southern family, he loved God and country (but not enough to actually be a soldier), and together they would have 2.5 perfect children. He differed from Biff only in hair color, and the location of where his family was from. She could predict exactly what kind of life they would live together.

When Quinn got back to Santana’s apartment, enough time had passed that it was now a respectable time to be up. Santana was still in the same spot that she left her, but she had seemed to have just gotten finished doing something, or talking to someone, just by the way she moved when Quinn opened the door. “Did you say hi to Berry for me?” Santana called.

“I didn’t go see anyone, I just rode the train up and down for a while.”

“Did you come back to tell me you’re going home early?”

“Do you think it’s possible for us to get through a conversation without getting into an argument?”

“I don’t know, Quinn, depends on if you say something that pisses me off.”

Quinn kicked off her shoes, and sat down at Santana’s desk. “I applied for an internship in New York that starts once the summer ends, and if everything goes well with that, than I’m going to enroll in grad school. Get my MBA.”

“And how does your beloved feel about that?”

“He wants me to move back home with him to Virginia.”

Santana gave a mocking laugh. “Oh, god, that’s priceless! Please tell me he lives on a plantation. That would be so perfect!”

“Did you hear what I said?”

“Yes, I heard you. Housewives don’t need advanced degrees, so why haven’t you given the perfect Martin his answer, yet? It’s not fair to make him wait.”

“You know why I haven’t.”

“Do I?” Santana questioned. She shrugged, as if this was news to her and turned on the television. “Let me know where you’re registered, and I’ll be sure to pick you out something nice.” Quinn scowled out her. “That’s all you have to say?” she demanded, frustrated at the girl in front of her.

“What do you want me to say, Quinn? Obviously you’re looking for something if you’re asking me that. Please, tell me what it is? You want me to save you? I’m not god or Jesus, I can’t save you from anything.”

“Damn it, Santana, for once, why can’t you just be human, and act the way you’re supposed to act when,”

“When my _friend_ tells me that she’s getting married? Is this better?” She clapped sarcastically. “Yea…Quinn!”

“No, not the way a friend acts! I just told you that someone wants to marry me. That someone is willing to go out on a limb enough to ask me to be his. That there is someone in my life who I have a future with, who loves me, and you’re not going to say anything to that?”

“I told you congratulations,” Santana repeated.

“That’s not what you’re supposed to say!”

Santana impassively watched the tears fall down her face. “What _am_ I supposed to say, Quinn? Don’t marry him? Why? You already know that you shouldn’t. Or as your secret lover am I supposed to pitch a fit! Go on a rampage? Be the stereotypical ‘fiery Latina’?”

“Don’t you feel anything about this at all? I just told you that you were one of my choices!”

“No, you told me that you had an internship. You know what I feel right now? Happy. He’s everything you professed to want, and I’m your friend, so I’m happy that you found someone who you can proudly parade out to your family and friends, instead of someone who you slip into bed with. I want to throw you a party. I want to smoke a cigar with him. I am happy Quinn, because the second you tell him that you’ll marry him, is the second I don’t have to worry about _this_ anymore. But if you want to marry him, or you don’t want to marry him, that’s your choice. I am not an excuse, and I’m not your way out.

“You mentioned that you’re about to graduate from college as if this means that you’ve achieved some level of maturity. Then grow the hell up. If you want something, open your damn mouth and ask for it. I’m sick of this game we keep playing! I’m sick of you always needing me to be the one to cross the line for you, princess. You just told me that I don’t handle things for myself but you don’t even have the courage to say what you want. You want me to tell you. You want me to be the one to say that I love you because you’re too scared to tell me that you love me, but I’m sorry. I’m not going to do that.

“I can’t lay myself bare, I can’t put myself out on the line for someone who wants me to do it all, and doesn’t want to offer anything in return. Take the internship, don’t take the internship, I don’t care. I don’t want whatever little crumbs you’re offering. I don’t want to be your secret! I got yanked from the closet when I was 17 years old, and I don’t want to go back into it. I’m not going to have a girlfriend who won’t hold my hand in public, or even thinks I don’t have a place outside of the bedroom.

“I want you to marry that tool because I am so fucking sick of always feeling this way! You make me feel as if I’m not good enough, Quinn. _This_ doesn’t feel good to me. I can’t even get you to make me fucking breakfast, and you want me to believe that you really made plans with me in mind?”

“What’s is it with you and this damn breakfast?”

“You want to know why I keep asking? Because when you make someone breakfast, it means that you actually care about them. It means that you thought about them enough to want to fix them the most important meal of the day! It means that they mean something to you other than a damned fuck buddy! Contrary to what you might think, I wasn’t put on this earth to make life easier for you at my expense. I have feelings, too, and this hurts! It _hurts_. So make up your damned mind, because either you get to be the girl that all I’m doing is fucking, who gets the fuck out of my bed after we’re done, or you get to be the one on my arm. My girlfriend, my lover, an actual friend. If I’m not actually your choice I don’t want to be anything; and I’m so tired of being your excuse.”


	18. The Lesbian Phone Tree

Alternate title: Santana and her Horrible, Terrible, No Good Very Bad Day

Santana woke up early feeling, well feeling like she had had lots of angry, wild, sex and then cried herself to sleep afterwards. It was such a different feeling from the other day when she’d burst into tears because she had just had one of the best sexual experiences of her life with the woman who she was going to spend the rest of her life with. No, last night wasn’t that kind of sex, and it wasn’t that kind of cry. She felt crappy, as one might after experiencing such a night, but better. Better than she had before she went to sleep, anyway. She looked at the bedside clock. It was barely 5:00, but she knew that she was done sleeping for the night.

Quinn stirred when she moved. “San?” she questioned, blinking sleepily. Santana could tell that the night before was weighing heavily on Quinn’s mind because normally she didn’t wake when Santana did.

Santana kissed her on the forehead. “Go back to sleep, babe.”

“Where’re you going?”

“Work.”

She watched Quinn raise her head to look at the clock. “It’s early.”

“Yea. I know. I have stuff I have to take care of, and I need an early start on my day.”

Quinn squeezed her tightly. “San, I’m _so_ sorry.”

“We’ll talk when you get home from work. Go back to sleep,” she said gruffly, but only because of the soreness of her throat.

Santana dressed in her sweatpants, an Under Armour thermal, and her cross-trainers, and borrowed a garment bag from the closet to put her suit in. She gave Quinn one last kiss before she left the apartment, and was on her cell as soon as the door was closed. “Ziggy, can you meet me?” she questioned as soon as her caller answered the phone.

There was a brief pause. “Do you know what time it is?”

“Yes. Can you?”

There was another pause. “Sure, hon, anything for you.”

“Thanks,” she said graciously.

While she waited for a cab, she dialed Puck’s number knowing he’d be up because he was up at 4:00. “Sup, Flopez?”

“How many times do I have to tell you that that name is lame?”

“You hurt my feelings. It took me like five minutes to come up with that name. Why you up so early?”

“I might have blown up last night, and I guess I have some leftover adrenaline in my system. I’m about to go work it off.”

“What’d you do, and don’t tell me that you hit Quinn because if you did-,”

“Be real, Puck. I’d never hit her.”

“Then what happened?”

Santana almost blurted out her story, but she reconsidered because Puck didn’t need to know that Quinn had nearly gone home with someone else. That was between them. “Quinn and I went out dancing the other night, and we ended up running into Jenna at the bar.”

“Jenna?”

“Halsey.”

“ _Brig_ Halsey’s daughter?”

“Yeah, her.”

There was a low swearing on the other end of the line. “I didn’t know you were even still caught up with her.”

“That’s why I’m calling you, Puck. She put her hands on Quinn…and I kind of lost it. I’m sorry.”

When he spoke again, Santana recognized the tone of Puck’s voice. If they were near each other, he’d be hugging her. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry about. I can take care of myself, and if I ever caught Jenna around either of you, I’d flip my shit, too. It’s okay, sweetie. I promise.”

“I hope so. I’m calling Stef as soon as we got off the phone, and if everything’s not okay-,”

“Everything’s fine,”

“Then I’ll be doing damage control all day.”

“If you do, take a buddy. And keep me posted! Love you, Flopez.”

“Love you, too, Puck.”

No sooner was the call ended than Santana was dialing her next number. Luckily Stef was up and answered almost immediately. “Detective Thiessen.”

Santana decided to cut straight to the point. “Stef, was there anything on the radio last night about a disturbance at Thrush Lounge?”

“Santana?”

“Yes.”

“Courtside. I want courtside.”

“Focus, Stef. Yes, no?”

“Not that I was aware of, but I’ll keep an ear open for you as always. You better not forget, Santana, and not on one of those stupid, soft nights at the beginning of the season; I want tickets to a game that counts.” 

“I don’t break promises, and I always get comp tickets. If the Celts happen to make it to the playoffs, I’ll have you so close you can smell their sweat. So you haven’t heard anything?”

“Nope,” he said, popping his p. “But I’ll call you the second that I do.”

“Thanks, Stef.”

“No problem, Santana, but oh, if you decide that you ever want to grace me with Pats and/or Sox tickets you won’t hear a complaint coming out of me.”

Santana laughed, shaking her head. “Of course I wouldn’t. I’ll see what I can do.”

When she got to the gym it was mostly empty. She walked past all of the machines, and weights, to one of the classrooms. She started spreading the blue mats onto the floor. She had her back to the door, and wasn’t really paying attention, when she felt an arm go around her neck, the crook of their arm squeezing around the meat of her neck, cutting off her bloodline. Instead of panicking and putting her hands up to grab the arm that was around her, she shifted her hips so that they were behind her attacker’s hips, drove the back of her arm into his chest, and he went flying backwards over her hip. She was quick, but not quick enough to move before her legs were swept out from beneath her. A hand went around the front of her neck this time, cutting off her airway. She countered by pressing two fingers to the trachea, and aiming a kick to the groin as she had ascertained that her attacker was male.

Unfortunately, he was also wearing a cup, but Santana still managed to roll away, getting to her feet. Her attacker managed to do so seconds before she did. A straight punch was aimed at her face. She blocked the punch, grabbed the arm, and attempted to flip him, but he anticipated the move, and locked his legs so she couldn’t gain the leverage. Her arm was caught, and twisted behind her back, sending a shooting pain through her body which momentarily distracted her, and impaired her rebound speed. She shifted her center of gravity, grabbed his hand above the wrist, and swept his legs out from beneath him, finishing off with a strong punch to the center of the chest. 

“That was sloppy, Santana,” she was informed, as her instructor, Ziggy got to his feet. “You let me get your feet.”

“I wasn’t prepared.”

“Do you think that if someone were coming at you to do you harm that they are going to wait until you’re ready to come after you?”

“No.”

“Then it’s safe to say you never will be. Again!”

Santana fought with a vengeance for the next half hour. Ziggy, recognizing her mood, didn’t go light on her, and Santana added some bruises to her already bruised body, managing to dish out a couple of her own. She wanted reassurance. She knew she could fight, she knew she could fight her way out of most situations; she wanted reassurance that she didn’t need a weapon to protect herself. But last night she hadn’t wanted to protect herself from Jenna, she’d actually thought about killing her. When she had sized her up, she wasn’t looking for weak spots, she was looking for kill spots. That was not a good feeling. The last thing Santana ever wanted to do was kill someone, and yet…she’d come really, really close. The only one who knew how close she’d been was Bryne.

After another take down, Ziggy went over to his bag and pulled out two bottles of water, handing one to Santana. “Want to talk about it?” he questioned, knowingly.

Santana looked embarrassed as she accepted the water from him. “I may have had some rage,” she admitted. “I almost killed a woman.”

Ziggy paused. “Just some random woman on the street?” he questioned curiously.

“No. I ran into Jenna at Thrush last night.”

He twisted the cap off of his bottle. “And what happened?”

Santana related the story from last night, mentioning the strain between her and Quinn, but leaving out the part about Quinn and Jenna knowing each other prior. She stopped after she got to the part about falling to her knees and reciting a Hail Mary. “I almost stabbed her with a beer bottle.” She still couldn’t believe that she’d let herself get so out of control. She should have left when Quinn suggested it. 

“But you didn’t,” he pointed out. 

“But I could have. And for no other reason than she insulted my wife. Like who does that?” She stared down at her hands as if she wanted to get rid of them. “Norma people don’t.”

He gave her his silent appraisal, and shrugged in his laid back way. “Nations have gone to war for less, and it wasn’t _just_ because she insulted your wife. We both know that. If I insulted Quinn, how would you react? Or if your boss did? Or some grungy jerk off in a bar?” Santana bit down on her lip. “You would have responded like a normal person, because functional adults know there are consequences for actions, and they understand that the only fight you win is the one you don’t get into.

“In a normal situation, you react like any normal person. Jenna, however, puts you in a high stress situation. She exacerbated your PTSD, and coupled with the powerlessness you must feel whenever you’re around her it was a lethal combination. You are not a killer, Santana. You are a protector. You perceived Jenna to be a clear threat to your wife, and you acted on your instincts. You didn’t attack her, either. You calmed yourself down, you found a way to relieve your rage so that it was manageable, and you got out of the situation.”

“ _I_ didn’t. I had help.”

“We all get help in life. That you needed it doesn’t make you any weaker. No one does this life thing on their own. You’re _not_ a killer. You have been taught how to kill if you need to, but that doesn’t make you a killer, Santana.”

Santana looked up from her hands. “I hate feeling powerless.”

“You are not powerless. People have only the power that we give them. Including ourselves.”

“Well then I hate that I’ve given so much of it to Jenna.”

“To that end I say, part of living life is understanding that there are some things that are simply out of our control. For those things, crumble them up and just let them go. Jenna is one of those things.” 

Santana looked over at Ziggy. “You smoked a joint before you got here, didn’t you?”

“The earth provides us with all the essential tools we need in order to survive,” he said philosophically. “Who am I to deny a gift?”

“You know, Zig, if I weren’t married, and had a job, and wasn’t 28, I would totally roll one with you right now, cause I could definitely use some calm. Imagine how easy this whole marriage thing would be if I was baked all the time. I keep waiting for Boston to get on the bandwagon with this whole legalization thing, but they keep dragging their feet.” Ziggy laughed.

They worked out for another20 minutes, did a circuit around the gym, and went for a run before Santana hit the showers because she had to be at work by 7:00. It was one of her early days. The inner peace she felt moments before, though, was instantly negated as soon as she hit the fresh air, and remembered the current state of her world. She texted Quinn a good morning text, because even though she didn’t really want to talk to her right now, she didn’t want Quinn to think that she didn’t still care about her. She got an answering text almost immediately: **Good Morning. See you when I get home?**

Texts didn’t carry emotion, but Quinn sounded anxious in hers. Santana thought about calling her, or trying to ease that fear in a text, but didn’t know what to say to do that, so she just texted back **Yes.**

Santana left the gym in enough time to stop by Dunkin’ before she crossed Tremont and clocked in. Paulianne was there because Paulianne was always there, lurking around corners, and peeking out of closed doors (unless it was the weekend because although she could order her minions to work, she didn’t). Paulianne was a woman in her late forties, who had blue eyes, a round, chubby face, and hair that was that color between brown, red, and blonde, that had probably been a solid color back when she was Santana’s age, but had since become mottled. On principal she didn’t like anyone under the age of 30 because she thought that today’s youth was seriously lacking in, well, everything.

She was actually Santana’s boss’s boss, but she was one of those women who just didn’t know how to delegate, which made her especially annoyed that Santana needed very little direction. Even when she was fresh out of grad school, Santana seemed annoyingly adept at her job. This, of course, made her scrutinize Santana’s work more than anyone else in her department. They currently had this hate-love relationship where they both didn’t like each other, but Paulianne could never actually seem to find fault with Santana’s work (even when she publicly found fault with it).

When Santana sat down at her desk, Paulianne strolled over. Santana felt an odd sense of foreboding when she seemed to be studying the objects on her desk. She pointed at one of her pictures of Quinn. “This your wife?” Paulianne asked, picking up the picture. Santana nodded. She had updated the pictures on her desk to add one of the ones that had been taken of the both of them when they were on their date. “What’s her name?”

“Quinn,” Santana responded.

“Pretty girl,” Paulianne said, in a semi-dismissive manner. “So, great news: you’re sample was approved, which means that production moves forward, which unfortunately means that I’m going to have to cancel your vacation request.”

Santana bit down on the corner of her lip. “How is that great news?”

“Because that’s great news for the team, which makes it great news for your job. Everyone benefits!”

Santana decided to play dumb. “But I’ve already got the okay. I have a reservation. Plane tickets.”

“I’m sorry, Santana. It seems you’re just too valuable not to have on hand this close to us going live.”

She missed the times when she could just command something and the world trembled at her footsteps. “It’s my honeymoon, Mrs. Greer.”

“And for that I am incredibly sorry, however I admire your dedication to your job and this company. I would like to remind you, too, that you knew that there was a possibility that the request wouldn’t go through. You knew this before you were hired.”

“I understand that, however, right now we are at a point in the project that I can do the work from home-,”

“Which is precisely why I feel comfortable sending you out to do invaluable marketing and demographic analysis because I know that we can reach you for questions, should any arise.” Santana had already gotten the idea that this conversation had not been random, and now she had her proof.

“ _Demographic_ analysis,” Santana repeated. “And where will I be collecting that data? Let me guess: Arizona?”

“And New Mexico, Nevada, Texas. You get the idea. See you are a smart, smart girl.”

Santana sat stiffly in her chair. “Mrs. George, let me ask: what do _you_ possibly get out of this arrangement?” 

“Great PR,” Paulianne responded, as if the answer was rehearsed. “Plus it saves me having to send a team out, which leaves more money in the budget for advertising. I’ll have Lederrick get you a list of the places I need you to visit. And look at it this way: you’ll be getting travel pay for your efforts _and_ you get to keep your vacation time.”

_I just don’t get to go on a freaking honeymoon with my wife_. Paulianne sat the picture of her and Quinn back down. “She really is a pretty girl. Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” she mumbled.

“Why don’t you take off an hour early,” Paulianne added as she sauntered off in a very Santana way. Santana looked down at the picture of them. She was beginning to think that her marriage was just flat out cursed. 

Around the time that Santana was contemplating lunch, her phone rang. She sighed when she saw the caller: Hazel. At the sight of the name Santana decided to give up, it was just going to be one of those days. Scratch that, weeks. “Hello, Hazel. How are you?”

“So lonely I want to blow my brains out sometimes. It’s been over two months. Why don’t you ever come around to see me anymore?”

Santana scrubbed at her face, she seriously needed some aspirin. “I’ve kind of been busy lately.”

“I need to talk. Can you come over tonight?”

“Why is everything in the world coming down on me at right this instant?”

Santana didn’t realize she had said the words out loud until she heard Hazel question, “What?”

“Nothing. I’m just having a really, really bad day, and it seems like the longer it lasts, the worst it gets.”

“Gee thanks, Santana.”

“I’m sorry, it’s just you have really bad timing, Hazel. I’m kind of in hot water right now as it is. How about Sunday?” she offered generously. “We can drive to the Vineyard, spend the whole day together.”

“I work on Sunday.”

She got an alert letting her know another call was coming in. She checked the caller and nearly cursed. Seriously! She needed a goddamn break. “Okay, fine Hazel. I’ll be over tonight. But I can only stay for a few hours. I’ve got another call, see you then!”

She hung up on one aggravation, only to be hit with another. “Hello?” she demanded tersely.

“Your tickets, itinerary, and project plan will be delivered to your office by courier this afternoon. They’ll need to be signed for.”

“It’s my honeymoon,” Santana repeated feebly.

“1:00,” was merely the answering reply on the phone.

The phone went dead in her ear. No Cabo. No tiny red bikini that Quinn would rip off of her body, preferably with her teeth. No reconnecting to each other with the rest of the world out of the way, and maybe settling some things between them. The only non-sucky thing was that they’d still have three days together after the reception before she had to high tail it to Arizona for God knows what reason. Even the idea that Bryne would be there, too, offered very little consolation.

She texted Bryne to let her know that yes, she would be in Arizona with her, and to see if it would be in any way possible to find a baby sitter in Phoenix. She called Quinn to let her know that she would be pretty late coming home, and she felt even worse at the sound of disappointment in Quinn’s voice. “Well do you want to at least do lunch?” she questioned.

“I’m on lunch now, and it’s almost over. Rain check?”

There was a very short, “Sure,” and then she hung up. Santana could tell that Quinn thought that she was avoiding her, and in a way she was, but it wasn’t punitive. Santana wasn’t trying to punish Quinn, she just had a whole shit-ton of emotions to process, and her day wasn’t going to allow her to do so.

Santana’s day got a little easier after she got back from lunch. Work became a non-issue for the rest of the day, and she was signed off of her desk and out the door at exactly 3:00. As soon as she was away from the office, she headed to her favorite place to go whenever she had a major blow or she hit her threshold for sad: Boston Children’s Hospital. At the sound of excited voices, she felt herself relax a little. She smiled one of her first smiles of the day at seeing some familiar faces, and was reminded that she would be in the presence of one of her favorite little dudes of all time, very soon. She got her badge from security, and was swarmed as soon as she hit the rec room.

She enjoyed when she read at the library, but when she did it at the Children’s Hospital it came with a special added sense of fulfilment. Here were the most vulnerable members of society, scared or hurt in some way, and yet she was always met with smiles when she came. They greeted her with laughter, and they fought over who got to sit closest to her, and if she choose them to read out loud, they acted like it was Christmas come early.

She spent an hour at the Hospital, and felt so much better when she left that she almost forgot that she was having a bit of a rough go at it lately. She clocked out of work via her phone, and was whistling as she got in her car, and headed towards Vons since Quinn wasn’t with her and she was therefore not obligated to do her shopping at Trader Joes. She was looking forward to seeing Hazel, and things were bound to get better; she couldn’t really see them getting worse.

At Vons she watched a mother with her kid for maybe 10 minutes, before she realized that she was being creepy, and just kind of made an educated guess as she loaded up her shopping cart. For dinner tonight for Quinn, she got Brussel sprouts, and the ingredients for a broccoli/carrot casserole that Rachel used to make, which was quick and easy to cook, and didn’t taste half bad. The Vons florist had calla lilies so she got one of those, too, which saved her a trip of having to go to an actual florist on the way home. When she got to her apartment, she left the lily sitting prominently beside the plate of food she left, along with a note that said, _See you when I get home. San._

It was 6:03 when she stopped outside of Hazel’s apartment complex on the south side of Framington. She texted Hazel that she was here, just so she wouldn’t freak out, before she unlocked the door with her key. At the sound of the door opening, a curly mass of black hair poked its head up over the back of the couch, followed by a pair of dark brown eyes that were set in a very pretty, olive skinned face. The eyes lit up in excitement at the sight of Santana, and she was nearly toppled by the force of the four-year old’s hug.

“Mama!” he shouted happily, as if the mere sight of Santana made everything in the world okay. He danced around her until she reached down to pick him up, planting two kisses on each cheek. “Hey buddy.”

“I missed you terribly!” he said in his humorously exacting speech. “Where have you been?”

She gave him a tight hug. “I missed you, baby. Where’s mommy?”

Hazel appeared at the head of the hallway. She leaned against the wall, and smiled at the sight of Phil holding Santana around her neck. “You guys always look so cute together,” she said.

Santana found herself smiling more at Phil than anything else. “That’s cause he’s my little man.”

“I’m not little,” he protested.

Santana gave him an exaggerated look. “You’re not?”

“No! I’m a big man.”

“Okay, big man. Have you been good for mommy?”

He nodded solemnly, and Santana knew it had to be true because Phil couldn’t lie to save his life. Considering the situation, that wasn’t necessarily a good thing. She gave him another kiss on the cheek, before turning her face to Hazel. “I got groceries. They’re in the car.”

“Can I help bring them in?” Phil questioned almost immediately. “Can we play a game, did you bring a book, what’re you going to cook, can I help?”

Santana fixed a look on Hazel who was now staring at anything but Santana. “You haven’t cooked yet?” she questioned with a quirked brow. She walked over to the refrigerator, opened it and saw that it was almost completely empty.

“Things have been tight,” Hazel said in response. Santana ground her teeth together, because she knew that she’d given her money for groceries, but she decided to let it go, instead turning to Phil and giving him a smile. “Yes, yes, yes, mac n’cheese and sausages, yes, and guess what?”

“What!” he questioned eagerly.

“I got you spider man fruit snacks!”

If possible his eyes lit up even more. “Really?”

“Yep.” Phil peppered her cheeks with kisses as she carried him down the stairs. Hazel followed doggedly behind the two of them. It took nearly 15 minutes to do a task that should have otherwise taken five, but it was worth it to watch Phil do his damnedest to carry a heavy bag up the stairs. When they finished with all of the bags, Santana gave him a packet of the fruit snacks so he wouldn’t be tempted to ‘help’ put away the groceries. Hazel just hung back, watching.

“You know, I figured you called me over because you wanted to talk,” Santana said, uncomfortable with Hazel’s silence.

“I just needed some company,” Hazel responded. “I’ve been feeling lonely. I don’t know anyone out here.”

“What was wrong with Colorado?”

“Colorado never felt like home.”

“But you could have branched out there. Start over. Make friends.”

“I don’t even know who I am. How am I supposed to make friends?”

Santana didn’t know what response to give. She moved a chair over to the counter so Phil could stand on it. “Do you remember how mama showed you how to hold a knife?” she questioned.

He nodded. “Yep!”

“And how do you hold your hand?”

He held up a little fist. “Like this!” he giggled. “So no fingers are out!”

“That’s right! Before we start cutting the sausages first we should put the pot on to boil.”

“Can I do it?”

“No, I think I should, but you can turn on the stove for me if you tell me the two things you should always remember before you touch the stove?”

His face scrunched up, deep in thought. “Always be careful,”

“And?”

“Never do this unless you’re around.” He pulled back. “Not even with mommy?”

Santana looked over at Hazel. “No, not even with mommy.”

Phil sucked in one of his lips. “She never cooks with me anyway.”

“That’s because I worry,” Hazel said quickly. “Do you really think it’s a good idea to be teaching him that?”

Santana looked surprised as she sat the pot on the stove to boil. “He’ll be five in two months. How old do you think he needs to be?”

“I don’t want to get him hurt.”

“That’s why you _teach_ them how to be careful. I used to cook with my abuela when I was three years old, and nothing bad ever happened, but if you coddle him, he’s never going to grow up.”

“It’s easy to dish out advice when you’re not the one that’s actually here with him.”

She opened her mouth to say something in response, when Phil cut her off. “You guys, don’t fight. We’re having _fun_.”

Santana’s mouth immediately snapped closed. Conversation stayed light and superficial while she and Phil made dinner, and Hazel kind of hovered in the background. After dinner they curled up together on the couch, and when Hazel left the room she showed Phil the disposable phone she’d brought.

“Is this for me?” he questioned.

Santana nodded. “Yep. Just for you. Mommy has her own, but I wanted you to have one, too, to call me in an emergency. To call on this phone all you have to do is dial is #1 for me or #2 for Stef. If you have to use the phone on the wall, you have to actually dial our numbers. Easy right?” Phil nodded. “What’s my number?” Santana quizzed.

“567 555 2348,” he sang. Santana had taught him to sing it so that it would be easier to remember.

“And the number you call for an emergency?”

“617 555 8107.”

“And what do you say if you call that number?”

“There’s a fire, Stef.” He scratched his head. “What if there’s not a fire.”

“No matter what, if you call that number you say, ‘there’s a fire Stef’. Do you understand?” He nodded. “This phone is for emergencies only. Do you remember what I said an emergency is?” he nodded again. “What’s an emergency?”

“If something happens to mommy, if something happens to me, if someone comes into the house uninvited, if there’s a fire, or if I hear someone call mommy Gloria or Glory,” he recited from memory. “Mama, what’s a Gloria?”

“As far as you’re concerned, it’s a very, very bad word that means you need to call me. Okay?” He nodded.

“What’s not an emergency?”

“Calling my mama when I miss her and want to talk to her.”

“Exactly, though your mama misses you and wants to talk to you always. You know that right?”

He nodded solemnly. “Yep.”

“And that I love you?”

“Yep!”

“Who’s my big man?”

“Me!” Santana tickled him, until he was gasping for breath. “Mama?”

“Yes, big man?”

“Will you spend the night with me, tonight?” He gave her a hopeful look that she hated to say no to.

“I can’t. I have to go home and spend the night with my wife.”

“Can I come with you, then?”

She pulled him onto her lap. “If you do that then who’s going to stay here to protect your mommy?”

He frowned. “Why can’t _you_ do it?”

“I am,” Santana explained. “But I protect her from the outside, and you protect her from the inside.”

He considered her words. “Can’t _you_ protect her from the inside _and_ the outside?” he questioned with typical four year old logic.

“I thought we were a team. Like Batman and Robin.”

He grabbed her face and pulled her toward him. “We are…but I miss you, and I want you here always.”

“I miss you, too, buddy, but you’ve got mommy to take care of you when I’m not here, and I can’t be here all the time because I have to protect my wife.”

“Cause you love her?” Santana nodded. “Does that mean you don’t love me?”

“Of course I love you! You’re my Philly, silly.”

“How come you don’t come over to see me anymore?”

“Because I have to do adult things. I have a job, and sometimes I run around and save the world, and I have to watch over my wife because if I don’t protect her, who will?”

He had an answer ready. “The police?” Santana kissed him because it was the best answer she could give the boy. “Do you love mommy, too?”

“Of course I love her! She’s my friend. That’s why I protect her.”

He seemed to be thinking through things. He put his bargaining face on. “If you can’t stay for the night, can you stay for half the night?”

“How about if I read to you until you go to sleep?”

“Okay!” he agreed readily. “Can I pick the book?”

“Actually, I brought a very special new book for us to read. It’s called _The Tiger Prince_.”

“I like tigers!”

Santana smiled. “I know. Go change into your PJs and then I’ll be in to read it to you.”

He hopped up to obey. While he was doing that, she found containers to put the leftovers in, and cleaned up the kitchen, sure that if she didn’t the next time that she came over, she’d still find bits of cheese sauce on the back wall. When she went into his bedroom, Phil was dressed in his dinosaur pajamas that were a foot too little. He was bouncing on the bed, but when Santana came into the room he immediately stopped.

“I can’t read to you if you’re not under the covers,” she instructed. She sat down beside him, resting against the headboard, and he cuddled up beside her. Santana just sat there for a minute, enjoying the moment, before she opened the book that she brought with her. It was the same one from the hospital. “ _The Tiger Prince_ by Arnold Dupree.”

For about half of the book, Phil helped her read, saying the words he recognized, and roaring along when it called for it, but fatigue soon caught up with the boy and soon he was doing more yawning than giving sound effects. Santana thought that she was going to have to go through a handful of books before he fell asleep, but he was out by the time she finished the first one. She watched him for probably five minutes before she carefully extracted herself from the bed and went searching for Hazel.

She found her in front of the TV. Santana joined her on the couch. “He’s asleep,” she informed her.

“Thank you,” Hazel said sincerely. “For coming over, and the groceries…”

Santana nodded. Hazel continued to look at her expectantly. Of course.

Santana pulled out her wallet and handed her a pre-paid debit card. “There’s a $1,000 dollars on that. I put it on there today.” Hazel turned the plastic over in her hands. “No cash?” she complained. “I could really use some cash, Santana.”

“No cash. This way I’ll know that the money’s only going to stuff that you need.”

“I’m not on anything.”

“There was no food in the fridge,” she reminded her. “What if I hadn’t come over?”

“I told you, things have been kind of tight.”

“Food comes first, and then everything else. Your rent didn’t go up, gas hasn’t gone up, the price of food hasn’t gone up, you shouldn’t have a problem if you’re not spending the money on things that you shouldn’t be buying. And why don’t his pajamas fit?”

“Because he hit a growth spurt. He’s a kid; that happens, and he really likes those pajamas. He didn’t want me to throw them out when I tried. I’m doing the best I can, here, and I don’t need you riding my ass about it. You’re not my mother!”

Santana was about to make a retort, and paused. “You’re right. I’m not.” The last thing she needed was a pseudo-relationship that aggravated her as much as her real marriage. After all, she had a wife to get into fights with. “I’m sorry. You’re doing a really good job. Phil seems to be happy. He speaks really well, he’s always polite, and I’m not around so I don’t have any right to say anything.”

Hazel looked appreciative of the words. “Thank you for admitting that. Sometimes it seems that you only drop in long enough to drop a criticism. I’m all alone.”

“I get that. I’m sorry. It’s okay if he wants to call me sometimes,” Santana said. “Just because I can’t make it out to see you guys, doesn’t mean that I don’t want to talk.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. He’ll like that.” Santana thought she would to. Hazel pointed the remote at the TV. “Want to watch something with me?” She had that same hopeful face that Phil had when he asked a similar question. 

“I can’t. It’s already late, and it’s a half hour drive back to the city. I need to get home to Quinn. I haven’t seen her all day, and we’re…going through something right now.”

“I really thought you’d stay longer,” she protested, and it was very close to a whine.

“I told you I only had a few hours.”

“I know, I just want some company sometimes. It gets s _o_ lonely. If I’m not at work, I’m hanging out with a four year old. I miss my life, I miss my friends. You’re pretty much all I have now, and I haven’t seen you in more than two months.” Santana sighed, because this was a lot more trouble than she thought it would be, and because she was tired of feeling like she was doing something wrong _all_ the time.

“I’m sorry that you’re lonely,” Santana said sincerely. “Honestly, I am.”

She didn’t let her continue, “And then the conversations that I do have mostly consist of ‘when’s mama going to come over’.”

“I live with someone now, Hazel. I don’t have the kind of time that I used to have anymore. You knew eventually that this was going to happen, and maybe it would be better for everyone involved if I _don’t_ come around so much anymore. He’s young enough to forget about me.”

“Do you really think he’s going to forget about you? You are written on every part of who he is. He adores you.”

“Once you start dating someone-”

“It’s been five years! No one wants a woman with a kid. No one wants a _broke_ woman with a kid, not to mention that I would doubt and second guess every single one of their motives, and actions, and where am I supposed to meet them? Boston’s off limits, right?”

“What about online dating?” Santana questioned. She honestly wasn’t being flippant. “Everyone seems like they meet someone online nowadays.”

“I can’t do this alone!” Hazel’s outburst was more along the lines of Ms. Pillsbury, than an actual blowup. “I’m not one of those people who can go through this by myself. I need some help!”

“I help out every month.”

“With _him_! You know he asks about you _every_ day. He wants to know if you’re going to come over, he wants to know if you think about him, he wants to know if you still love him.”

“Of course I still love him; I just can’t be here like I’ve been.”

“You explain that to a four year old! You tell him that! You look in his face when he’s crying and tell him sometimes mamas don’t love their little boys.”

“That is a fucking real low blow, Hazel, and that’s flat out not fair. One of these days you’re going to pack up and move off somewhere, and you’ll end up making a family with someone, and I won’t have any say in what you do, or where you go; the only thing I’ll get to say is good-bye.”

“I would never do that to you or him.” That was a lie. Not because Hazel didn’t mean it, but because if the situation arose, she would. “All I’m asking for is that you find just a little bit of time to be with him. Like you promised.” Santana wanted to scream because this shouldn’t have even been her battle, but she also knew it wasn’t one she could walk away from either. “He loves you Santana, and other than me you’re all that he has. You’re his family.”

She heaved a sigh. “What time?”

“What time what?”

“What time do you work on Sunday?”

“10 to 8.”

“I’ll watch him for you while you’re at work.” The sentence was hardly spoken before Hazel was dashing into her arms. She kissed her on the cheek. “Thank you!” Santana nodded, not knowing what else to say.


	19. My only choice

Quinn woke when Santana started moving in her arms, feeling as if she needed a couple more hours of sleep. She checked the time. 5:00. She felt Santana’s lips press against her skin, before movement told her that Santana had removed herself from the bed. It was way too early. Why was Santana getting up when she didn’t have to be at work until 7:00? Why was she leaving so soon?

After Santana left the bed just felt so cold without her in it, and Quinn had no hope of falling back to sleep, so she got up, because otherwise she’d spend a few hours going over the events of the night before. Why was it that it always seemed that Quinn’s mistakes came back at her in big ways? Drunk sex outside of marriage? Baby. Texting while driving? Wheelchair. Not having the courage to tell Santana that she loved her? Almost losing her. A dumb, dumb night in a bar? She didn’t know the outcome of that, not yet.

She went into the kitchen to find breakfast kind of made for her and waiting on the counter. Kind of because there was dry oatmeal in a bowl, with the water measured out for it, and half a pat of butter resting on top of the dry oats. There was a banana curled around the bowl, and a note in the cup that said, _“There’d be milk, too, if we had it.”_ Quinn smiled. If Santana was joking in paper form it meant that she wasn’t too mad, right? Or maybe she wasn’t joking.

Quinn added the water to her oatmeal, and stuck it in the microwave. The apartment was far too quiet. She switched on the radio, and went seeking out one of Santana’s entertainment magazines. She flipped past the article about Justin Bieber and Miley welcoming their _second_ child, despite the fact that they were still separated and reportedly sleeping with other people, as well as the one on the latest blockbusters scheduled to be produced. She and Santana were supposed to go out on a date on Saturday. She wondered if Santana remembered. Were they still going to go out?

Quinn hated this whole being in limbo thing. If she had her way the both of them would have taken a sick day and spent the whole day talking. In her head anyway. If real Quinn actually had her way, the two of them wouldn’t ever talk about this. They would pretend that nothing had happened, go on their date on Saturday, and continue planning the reception which was three and three quarter’s weeks away. She had discovered that Santana actually had her own flower, the _Santana hibiscus,_ and she had ordered them as a surprise for her wife.

Quinn almost started to dial Maribel’s number, but she figured that calling her this early in the morning would be a sure trigger that there was something wrong. Mom was like her daughter in that regards; she missed nothing. It really wasn’t fair that Santana got to know everything about her, and she remained a mystery to Quinn. Part of that was both of their faults. After that one argument close to graduation they had stopped talking about pretty much anything, really, except each other’s anatomy’s, so Quinn missed out on the past five years of Santana’s life, not that Santana had offered up too much information when the two of them were in college, either.

She texted Mercedes to call her when she woke up, and lucked out because her phone was ringing a few minutes later. Quinn almost tripped over her feet in her haste to pick up the phone that she sat on the counter.

“Why do you sound out of breath? You and Santana weren’t just…?”

“What? No! Santana left for work at some ungodly hour this morning. But you know that saying that angry sex is the best sex?”

“Yeah.” 

“Not exactly true. It felt like we went to war last night, and I’m completely covered in battle scars right now.”

“Didn’t need that visual, but thanks for sharing. Who did what now? Why were you guys having angry sex?”

Quinn looked guilty even though there was no one around to see it. “Because when Santana and I got into an argument about my dad coming to the wedding, I kind of walked out on her and almost danced my way into someone else’s bed. Last night we ended up running into one of the women I almost went home with when Santana and I were out.”

“I’m not really sure which part to address first. You make almost cheating sound so poetic, did you really say one as in there were more than one, and I think it’s about time that you found another coping method for feeling down on yourself. I honestly don’t think that your argument about your father had anything to do with a fight between you and Santana; I just think it’s a convenient scapegoat because you’re scared that Santana’s going to disappear on you, and you think that if you walk out on her you don’t have to worry about her walking out on you.”

“Do you know Brittany kissed her?” Quinn questioned. “That day on the set. Like I have a picture of it on my phone. She kissed her, and she sent it to me, and you know how Santana feels about her!”

“I know how Santana _felt_ about her, and I know how she _feels_ about you. Quinn if you can’t see that she is over the moon about you, then you really need to go back to wearing glasses, or up your prescription on your contacts. Santana only wants you. I’d might even go so far as to say that she’s always only wanted you. And in case you forgot, Santana’s the one who ended things with Brittany, not the other way around.”

“Yeah, but what can I give her that could possibly make her stay?”

Mercedes huffed. “Okay, white girl, you know how much I hate having to build up your ego because it’s clear that you’re the shit, but you’re my best best, so I will. Sometimes you can be funny, usually when you don’t try, you’re talented, you’re smart, and you’re gorgeous. Why wouldn’t she want you?”

It was subtle, the order that Mercedes had listed her attributes, and Quinn was appreciative. She didn’t like it when the first thing that people thought of her as was beautiful.

“Yeah, but she’s flawlessly gorgeous, and I have to work at it”

“And my hair ain’t naturally straight. And Julia Roberts dyes her hair that red color. And Lupita…okay who are we kidding, she’s just perfect, and can you believe that she and Liam Hemsworth have been married for 4 years? Oh, sorry…what were we talking about? You and Santana. You guys are so perfect for each other that I’d be willing to bet that God made you for each other, so you got to get over these insecurities or you’re going to mess up things between you. How’d Santana take it when you guys ran into the home wrecker?”

Quinn paused just remembering. “She like broke a bottle, with her bare hands, and went all ‘I’ll cut a bitch’ at this girl, and I think she really would have done it, ‘Cedes, if this red-headed chick hadn’t flown out of nowhere and said something to Santana in some other language. Do you think she would have?”

Mercedes took a moment to think about it. “Nah, Santana’s all bark and no bite. Well, nibble. She’s all bark and a nibble. She’s a softie…well she did kind of scare me over Xavier.”

“What’d she do?”

“She got someone to…I’m not sure _what_ they did, but when he woke up like 12 hours later, he was in Kalamazoo. And she gave him a bunch of tickets and towed his car, but Kalamazoo, Quinn. How the hell do you drag someone off to Kalamazoo and tattoo them without them knowing?”

“There was a tattoo involved, too?”

“Crazy, right! That its permanent.”

“Gave him a roofie, maybe?”

“Maybe.”

“You don’t think she’s honestly like, a spy do you? I seriously think that she might be, but real people aren’t spies. That’s like, for-,”

“Non-real people? Aren’t spies like real people?”

“I mean, doctor’s daughter’s don’t become spies. Spies are people who have no money, and no families, are at the end of their rope, and have nothing to lose.”

“Girl, you watch too much TV!” Mercedes considered it though. “Well…she did seem to go missing a lot back in freshman and sophomore year, and neither she, nor Brittany, could offer any satisfactory explanation for where they were.”

Quinn pursed her lips in thought. Mercedes seemed to be doing some thinking too. “Didn’t you guys open joint accounts together? Why don’t you just _look_?”

“It’s not likely to say that Santana is a spy on a pay stub.”

“No, but if you see B6-13 on the pay line, then you’ll know she works for a secret, shadowy organization, which would be awesome because Keri Washington is my girl! I hate that that show went off of the air.”

“It lasted six seasons. Eventually Fitz had to get out of the White House. Oh, Santana just texted me so I’ll talk to you later?”

“Say sorry!” Mercedes said jokingly, right before she hung up. Quinn eagerly clicked over to her text, but was disappointed when all Santana’s text said was ‘Good Morning’. Her answering text was much longer only to be given a one word answering text in response. It did nothing to dispel her belief that her wife was pissed and not talking to her. She thought about calling, but she also didn’t think she could handle it if Santana ignored the call. She actually teared up a little thinking about it, but then she mentally slapped herself because she was Quinn fucking Fabray (Lopez).

Quinn couldn’t stop over thinking things, and she was grumpy from waking up so early, so when she got to her office at 9, she was in a semi-foul mood. She parked herself in front of her work station with a bit of a huff.

Connie peeked her head over the divider. “You look horrible.”

Quinn grimaced. “Thanks, Connie.”

“Bad day yesterday?”

“No yester _day_ was fantastic; yester _night_ was terrible.”

“Want to talk about it?”

Quinn turned to her computer, opening her file. “I don’t want to even acknowledge that it happened,” Quinn informed her. She had expense reports waiting for her. Quinn pulled up dual screens on her computer, grinding her teeth. She’d rather do this the old fashioned way with a ruler and a pen so she could clearly see each item that she had to sift through, but management had had the brilliant idea that they could save hundreds of thousands of dollars a year, countrywide, by reducing printing, so this was the method they came up with. Technology was awesome. “You’re not married, are you Connie?”

“Not since 2015.”

This was news mostly because she knew little to nothing about Connie, her life, or even her last name. “What happened?”

“He was a dog,” Connie said simply.

“Did he cheat?”

“God, when didn’t he?” 

Quinn’s pen moved anxiously between her fingers. “If he had like, say, almost went home with someone, but didn’t go home with someone, would you have still ended things between you?”

“How do you ‘almost’ go home with someone?”

“Like the other party backs out in the end.”

“Isn’t that the same as cheating? It’s not like he _didn’t_ cheat, it’s just that the opportunity disappeared.”

“Yea, but should he be punished for possibly doing it? We don’t send criminals to jail for crimes they almost committed.”

“Depends on the crime and the criminal. There’s attempted rape; attempted murder.”

“But no such thing as attempted adultery.”

Connie shrugged. “You know what I would think? If they made the attempt once, what’s to stop them from making the attempt again? You keep throwing rocks at a barn, eventually you’re going to hit it.”

Quinn decided that Connie was full of it. She buried her head in her reports, and didn’t say another word to the woman for the rest of the morning. Unfortunately, it meant that she was alone with her thoughts (and her wonderful, non-judgmental numbers) all morning. She had to stop herself from texting Santana more than a dozen times. She didn’t want to be _that_ girl. When her phone did go off, and it was Santana, she almost yelled from excitement, but caught herself before she did. “Hello,” she questioned eagerly.

“Hey, Q.” Quinn could already feel the bad news coming. “I’m going to be late coming home, tonight.”

“How late?”

“Late, late. Maybe 10. I know you wanted to talk, and I’m sorry. We can still when I get home, but you don’t have to wait up for me.”

“Why’re you going to be so late?”

“A friend of mine who’s kind of homebound is going stir crazy, and I told her I’d come over to keep her company.”

Quinn wanted to protest. She wanted to throw a wife fit. If last night hadn’t happened, she might have, but it did.

“Do you want to meet me for lunch?” she questioned. She shuttered at the unmasked desperation in her voice.

“I’d love to, but I don’t have time. I’ll make dinner before I go over to her place, so you don’t have to worry about bringing something home. I’ll see you when I get home.”

“Yeah, okay,” Quinn finally said.

She hung up with Santana feeling absolutely terrible. Santana _was_ upset with her. Not just upset, she was actively trying not to be around her. Santana had never come home that late before, and it felt even later because she had been anticipating, no matter how nervously, them talking when she got home from work. And now they weren’t. She didn’t want to be so in her head, she didn’t want to worry because Santana had gone out of her way to make Quinn feel as if she didn’t have anything to worry about with them, but still she did.

**Quinn: Please tell me that you’re free tonight, ‘cause I could use a friend.**

**Mercedes: You don’t even have to ask. Already there.**

She texted Mercedes Santana’s address, and briefly wondered why she was going over to Santana’s if Santana wasn’t even going to be there, but it was already a habit.

Although she had said that she’d make something, Quinn was still surprised when she let herself in and found that there was a plate waiting for her. She had also left a flower, a calla lily. Didn’t Brittany once get Santana a shit ton of lilies?

She was reading the note when Mercedes knocked. “Is it always that easy to get in your building?” she questioned as she walked across the threshold. “I just told the guy I’d forgotten my key, and he let me through. No questions.”

Quinn nodded. “Yep.”

Mercedes eyes fell almost instantly to the space in between the TV screen and the bookshelf, where a purple dildo was suctioned to the wall. “Please tell me that that’s an expression of modern art, and I am completely mistaken in thinking what it really is.”

In her head she could clearly hear Santana say, _Gianna’s afraid of the dark, Quinn. How would_ you _like to be in a dusty drawer all the time?_

“Her name’s Gianna,” Quinn said dismissively.

“You seriously named it?”

Quinn wasn’t well versed in dildo protocol. Was that a bad thing? Mercedes’ eyes finally moved from the dildo to Quinn. “What’s that?” Mercedes questioned, nodding at the sheet of paper in her hand. “Santana left it for me with dinner.”

“She feedeth among the lilies,” Mercedes said nonsensically.

“What?” Quinn wondered.

Mercedes shook her head. “It’s a bible verse. What’d she cook? _Can_ Santana cook? She doesn’t really strike me as having impressive culinary skills.”

Quinn laughed. “Most of her dishes that are _really_ good are vegan, which makes me think that they’re all Rachel’s recipes, but she tries. I’ve got to give her credit for that. You want me to fix you a plate?”

“What is it?”

“Brussel sprouts and a carrot broccoli casserole.”

“Where’s the meat?”

Quinn laughed at the fact that she wasn’t the only one that felt that way. “I’ll cook some Salmon to go with it.”

Mercedes joined Quinn in the kitchen while she cooked. She admired the lily. “Do you really think she’s mad at you; I mean she got you a flower so she can’t be to mad?”

“She’s not here.”

Mercedes picked the floor up, sniffed it, and then sat it back down in the vase. “After my parents used to argue, my dad would always bring my mom a single flower. One day I asked him why he did it, and he told me that even when he’s angry at my mom, he always brings her a flower to let her know that he still loves her.”

“What kind of flower?”

Mercedes shrugged. “A rose, I think. My mom used to cook dad’s favorite meal when she was maddest at him,” she added. “I think for the same reason. Where is she right now?”

“She said she was visiting some girl friend, somewhere.”

“Are you okay with that?”

“Not really, but what can I say about that?”

“When’s she say she’s coming back?”

She slid the casserole and sprouts into the oven to warm.

“10. Maybe later. Is that weird that she’d going to be out that late with another girl?”

Mercedes scrunched up her face. “Don’t know, but if you know she’s going to be gone for a few hours you know what we should do? We should snoop!”

It sounded like bad advice the second Mercedes said it, but it was oh so appealing. Santana had nothing but secrets; it wasn’t right that she was married to Santana and barely knew her. Well the new her. She knew high school Santana really well. “I can’t spy on my wife.”

“Sure you can,” Mercedes stated. “It’s your right.”

It was just at that moment that she got a text message alert from Cambridge Savings letting her know that there had been a $1,000 withdrawal from their account earlier. It was like God was trying to tell her something. Still, she made another attempt to resist, “She’d notice. I’m telling you she’s like a superhero. She can like seriously tell if someone’s cheating just by looking at them.”

Mercedes gave an abrupt chuckle. “You really fell for that one?”

“I’m serious, ‘Cedes. Like she predicted a guy getting hit by a bicycle; she’s like psychic.”

Mercedes thought about it. “Just tell her you were looking for something, and don’t try to put things back exactly the way you found them so it seems plausible. It’s not like Santana hasn’t looked through everyone’s stuff at some point in our lives anyway.”

It was a fair point. “You know she has a gun? She says it’s hidden under the bed.”

It was all that was needed for the two of them to go search for it. If Santana could presumably get to it and assemble it in 15 seconds, Quinn figured that it couldn’t be that hidden, but apparently she was wrong. There was absolutely nothing underneath the bed, and in the end she actually had to take the mattress off the frame, to see how a hollow had been carved into it, underneath where Santana’s head would rest. Santana had even stitched a cover back over the hole where the box was kept to keep it from being immediately obvious.

Mercedes stared at the spot where the gun was hidden. “Okay, maybe she _is_ a spy.”

The box had a complex slide lock on it, and although she didn’t really want anything to do with the gun, she vaguely wondered if Santana would give her the code to the box if she asked her for it.

The timer on the stove went off. Quinn put the gun back where it belonged, fixed the cover, and quickly remade the bed, before messing it up, since it hadn’t been remade after the last time they slept in it.

“Why doesn’t Santana have a table?” Mercedes questioned when they were seated on the floor in front of the TV.

“Because she’s Santana,” Quinn said, which was answer enough.

Maybe five minutes of silence passed before Mercedes questioned, “Are you two going to ever, I don’t know, move in together, instead of this apartment jumping that you keep doing?”

“We don’t jump. Santana gets off of work early’s Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday, so we sleep at her place, Wednesdays and Fridays were at mine, and we alternate on the weekends.”

“I’ve heard of custody agreements that are simpler.”

“I don’t mind, and Santana’s never brought up moving in together.”

“Well, why don’t you?”

Quinn shrugged. Something had caught Mercedes eye, so she missed the gesture. “Oh, no way!” she said excitedly. She crossed the room, over to the bookshelf in the alcove. “I can’t believe Santana has _Flossie and the Fox!_ Man, my nana used to read this to me when I was a kid! I didn’t even know other people _knew_ about this! This is like one of my favorite books!”

Mercedes fingered through some of the titles. Every now and then she would squeal when she touched on one that apparently had some significance to her. “Santana has a _lot_ of Children’s books,” she noted. Quinn walked over to her side, reading over her shoulder. “Like a _lot._ Why do you think she has so many?”

Quinn shrugged. “I can’t guess. Santana’s the only child so she doesn’t have any nieces or nephews, and I don’t think she’s close enough to any of her cousins to bring the kids over. Well, she’s close to them, but none of them live close by.” She joined Mercedes in flipping through the titles. Why on Earth did she have so many?

“Maybe she has a kid,” Mercedes joked. The two of them laughed loudly. “Could you imagine Santana with a kid?”

Quinn smiled to herself. “I don’t know, I think Santana’d make a good mom. She’s really caring, and loving, and passionate.”

Mercedes rested her head on her hand. “Aww…”

“Shut up,” Quinn mumbled, still smiling. “But I mean it takes all of our energy not to kill each other, how could we have a kid?”

The talk made Quinn think about her own daughter. She got updates from Puck, but she otherwise hadn’t seen the girl in years. Every year on Beth’s birthday and at Christmas, she sent her a card. She would spend weeks thinking of what she wanted to write in the cards, but every time, without fail, all she would actually do is sign the card _Love, Lucy Q._ Last year she’d gotten a card back from Beth on her birthday. Yea, she really wasn’t ready to have kids.

She and Mercedes cleaned up, and sat back in front of the TV. Mercedes streamed _Brown Sugar_. When they got to the part to the night before Taye Diggs wedding, where he’s talking about getting married to his fiancé instead of Sanaa, Quinn actually starts shouting at the screen about Dre being Syd’s true love and them being stupid for not seeing that, which Mercedes found hilarious. “Have you heard from Martin recently?”

Quinn hugged her pillow to her chest because it was just so obvious that Dre and Syd were made for each other, and they were too caught up in their friendship to realize it. “He’s married, has a little girl, and I think one on the way.”

“You know Dre and Sidney are kind of like you and Santana. Been friends forever so you ignored the feelings you had developing for each other, and then Martin comes swooping in, to try to win you away from her.”

“Eight months,” Quinn whispered. “We didn’t talk for eight months.”

Mercedes gave Quinn a kind look. “I know, I was there for it, and I think that you two should have both been slapped. If you had actually said yes to his proposal, I would have slapped you.”

Quinn turned back to watching watched Dre stupidly get married to Reese. She wonders if Santana would have just stood by if she’d gotten married to Puck. To Martin. She could see herself almost literally pissing on whatever girl Santana would have married if she had ever taken that plunge. Their friendship definitely wouldn’t have survived that because it would have ended up with a huge fight between the two of them, and them probably not talking ever again.

By the end of the movie, Mercedes was crying because she couldn’t seem to find someone, and Quinn was crying because she couldn’t seem to keep them. When the movie was off, Mercedes helped her clean up, and put things back, semi-neatly, and she left because Santana should be returning soon. Quinn thought it’d be a waste to stopper the bottle of wine she and Mercedes had been drinking from, so she decided to finish it while she sat on the couch waiting for Santana to come home. She kept rewinding to the part where Taye Diggs had Sanaa up against the bookshelf because she couldn’t get enough of the kiss. _We kissed like that_.

It was close to 11 when Santana opened the door to their apartment to find Quinn sitting on the couch, television on, book in her lap, glass of wine in her hand, and her eyes red-rimmed as if she had spent the last several hours crying. Quinn jumped when Santana walked through the door, as if she’d been drifting off to sleep and the sound of the door opening woke her. They stared at each other for a few seconds, before recognition showed in Santana’s eyes, and she covered the distance to move to Quinn’s side. “Quinn,” she said, her voice a gentle caress, “babe, I told you not to wait up.”

Quinn sat up fully. “I didn’t think you were coming home.”

Santana took the remote and wine from her hands. She turned the TV off, and kneeled down in front of Quinn. She gently touched her cheek. “I’ll _always_ come home. Please tell me you haven’t spent all afternoon crying.”

Quinn sniffled. “No!” she wiped her eyes, in case there was any residual evidence.

“What’s wrong?”

“You’re my air,” she said, semi-coherently. “I can’t breathe without you, but you spent all day ignoring me! I’m sorry about that girl. You couldn’t imagine how sorry. I don’t want you to hate me,”

“Ssh,” Santana hummed when she saw fresh tears roll down Quinn’s face. She hugged her to her body. Quinn shook against her. “If I hated you, would I have made you dinner and brought you home a lily?” she questioned rhetorically. “I don’t hate you, Quinn. I could never hate you. I’m just hurt, and sad, and embarrassed, and I don’t want to project any of those feelings on you. That’s all.”

“I’m sorry I embarrassed you.”

“You didn’t,” Santana gave a soft sigh. “I embarrassed me. I lost control. I should have just walked away, but I flew off at Jenna instead, and almost got kicked out of the bar like the 17 year old Santana who flew off at Berry when Finn lost us Nationals. I’m,” Santana lowered her voice, almost pleading with Quinn to understand. “I’m not that girl anymore.”

It was Quinn’s turn to touch her cheek. “I don’t think of you as that girl still, Santana.”

Santana looked away. “You said you did.”

“I was angry.”

“But you still said it. I’m not proud of who I was then, and I’m not proud that I almost got into a bar fight. I’m _not_ that. I was embarrassed because I didn’t know how you would look at me, after.”  
“Honestly, I thought it was pretty bad ass,” Quinn admitted. “I like knowing that you’ll stand up for me.”

Santana sucked in her breath and nearly pulled away. “I’m going to go to bed.”

Quinn picked up immediately that she had somehow said something wrong. She held onto Santana’s hand. “What?”

She attempted to pull away, but Quinn wouldn’t let go, and Santana wouldn’t break her grip to force her. “What’d I say wrong?” she questioned, confused as to the sudden change in Santana’s persona.

Tears rolled silently down Santana’s face. “I just really want to go to bed now. It’s been a long day.”

“San, tell me what’s wrong. We can’t keep walking away from each other! We _have_ to figure out how to talk to each other!” Santana closed her eyes, and shook her head, trying to fight her emotions. She felt too weak, too vulnerable. After a silent minute passed, she opened her eyes, and looked into Quinn’s, her brown eyes fathomless. “Why’d you say yes?” She could easily see how surprised Quinn was by the question. “Forget the orgasm induced ‘yes’ that you gave me, after, the next morning, and when we were at the park. You still said yes. Why?”

Quinn’s hazel eyes flickered. She’d never really given it much thought. “What else was there for me to say?” she wondered, aloud. “You made sense. When you said that we were each other’s longest relationship, and for the last four or so years, I _did_ only attempt to date when I realized that you were the only one that I was with. I don’t appear to be good at this relationship thing; I haven’t seriously dated anyone in a really long time, and there has to be a reason for that, right? So, I guess I thought _fuck it_ , why not? At least I know the sex will be good. At least I know that even if things weren’t perfect, at least I won’t be alone.”

“So you settled for this because you didn’t think anything better would come along?”

“Who ‘settles’ for Santana Lopez?” Quinn posed. “Why did _you_ propose?”

Santana’s answer was ready made. “Because if I had to think about all of the people in my life that I would want to spend the rest of it with, you’re the only name that comes to mind.”

“So what did I say that had you wanting to pull away?”

Santana forced herself to say the words. “You liked that I fought for you, and I _like_ protecting you, but like I tried to tell you back in New York, I’m not strong. I need someone to protect me, too, and you didn’t. You didn’t stand up for me.” Quinn flinched, but Santana didn’t notice. “I had no defense because you gave me none against her, Jenna, and Jenna-,” Santana fought against her swell of emotions. She forced herself to breath evenly.

“Do you remember when Finn found out that Rachel made out with Puck and he flew into a rage because of the history of Puck getting with ‘Finn’s girls’?”

As Quinn had once been one of ‘Finn’s girls’ who cheated on him with Puck, yes she did remember that. Was Santana trying to remind Quinn that she had always thought of her as a cheater? “Yes.”

“Finn would have been hurt if it had been anyone but he was more so because of who it was and their history. I am not exaggerating in the least when I say that I would have rather have found out that you almost slept with anyone else in the entire state. Actually you could sleep with _every_ one else in the entire state, and it wouldn’t hurt me nearly as badly as it would if you slept with Jenna.”

“Why?”

Santana shrugged her shoulders because there was only so much she could tell Quinn. “It’s complicated. Just leave it at that we’ve known each other for some time, and she’s not a nice person.”

“What aren’t you telling me?”

“A lot,” Santana said openly.

Quinn considered. “What _can_ you tell me that you’re not telling me?”

Santana fidgeted uncomfortably. She was uncomfortable both at the answer, and because Quinn was learning how to navigate her. “She hurts people. She hurt me.”

Quinn took in the expression on Santana’s face, and a sense of foreboding flooded through her. “What do you mean?” Quinn questioned nervously.

Santana winced at the fear in Quinn’s voice. “Not like… _that_.”

“Like what? Did you two have sex?”

Santana disappeared for a moment, her eyes dilating as she contemplated that statement. She blinked. “I slept with her wife.”

Quinn didn’t know why she was surprised to find out that Jenna was married, but she was and Quinn focused on that rather than the fact that Santana had slept with her. She knew that they’d both slept with other people. “She’s married?”

Santana bit down on her nail. “Was. In a manner of speaking. Not legally. They had kind of what you and I had going on, only Jenna was the only one who was allowed to date other people. I can only tell you the non-redacted version of the story, because it really is complicated, like really, really complicated.” Santana paused, her eyes flickering back and forth, almost like she was reading something in her head. “Remember when I texted you about getting tested? It was because of Jenna’s wife. I honest to God, had no idea that they knew each other, much less were dating, and it wasn’t a lust thing. It was just one of those moments when you’re just really fucking lonely, and it just _happened._ ”

“When?”

“After New York.” For the two of them New York referred to only one thing: the one and only time the two of them had tried, unsuccessfully, to have a conversation about their relationship. “Jenna found out, so suddenly I’m in her sights. She…,” pause, “ _I_ had a bad night in a bar, and I went to confront Jenna about it, and she and five other people ended up beat…we got into a fight. I lost. We came to an…understanding; I stay out of her way.”

Quinn winced mentally at the thought of Santana getting jumped because that’s what it sounded like despite what Santana was actually saying. Despite her bluster, in high school, Santana really wasn’t a fighter. Lauren had pretty much been the only one to challenge Santana, and she’d flattened her. But that was high school. The Santana from the bar last night, certainly seemed capable of fighting and fighting well. She could easily take on Jenna, but her and five other people?

“Can’t you like _do_ something about her. Mercedes and I were kind of under the impression that you ‘knew’ people. You made a guy disappear for a day just by making a phone call.”

“Mercedes wasn’t supposed to tell you about that.”

“Well, she did.”

“If I could make Jenna disappear by making a call, I would. Unfortunately I can’t. I might know people, but she knows bigger people. It would have been very, very bad if I had gotten in that fight with Jenna.” She reconsidered. “Unless I actually killed her.” Quinn shuddered, because that wasn’t a word that had any place in her world.

“Jenna is pretty much the only person in this world that I pretty much hate with a passion, and the idea of her touching you in anyway, but especially that way. And then what she said: you remembered me enough to tell her you were married, but not enough to stop you from going off and almost going home with her, and not enough to come home…it hurt. Because what Jenna said is true: you’d have to be desperate to marry me.”

“How can you even _think_ that?”

“I made a mistake.”

“I know, but I’ve never been anyone’s first choice, Quinn. Not even Brittany’s. I wasn’t the girl that anyone wanted to make into a girlfriend, I was just the girl that everyone wanted to fuck; a notch in a belt loop. I know that ‘us’ came out of left field, and that it’s not love or anything, but…just once, I want to be the one that someone chooses.”

Quinn’s back straightened. “I’m sorry,” she responded. “I didn’t know.”

Santana just kind of set her shoulders. “I know,” Santana allowed. “I know that you weren’t trying to hurt me. I know you didn’t know about Jenna, and I’m not mad, I’m really not. It just hurts, and I need a little space so that I don’t hurt you, because I’m hurting.”

Santana could see Quinn struggling with emotions. She blinked, before she jumped up, suddenly. “Did you eat? I could fix you a plate.”

“I did,” Santana assured her. “I ate at Hazel’s.”

“Hazel?”

“The friend I visited,” Santana explained.

“What’d you eat?”

“Macaroni and Cheese, and sausages.”

Quinn squinted at the unusual combination. “She must have a kid.”

Santana met those words with a small smile. “She does. A really great kid. His name is Phillip. He’s four, almost five.”

“It doesn’t sound very healthy.”

“It wasn’t,” Santana agreed. “But it was late, for him, it’s quick to cook, it’s something that he knows how to make, and he likes it when I cook with him.”

Quinn squinted because the way Santana talked she sounded like the two of them were familiar. “Is this someone that you spend a lot of time with?”

Santana nodded. “Yes, well not so much since we got married, because they live out in Framington so I don’t get to go over as often as I’d like, but I’m going to change that. You can meet him if you want to. I told Hazel I’d baby sit this Sunday, and we’re going to spend the day together. Me and Phil, obviously, not Hazel. She has to work.”

Quinn bit down on her lip at the thought of baby-sitting with Santana, though Hazel gave her a prickly feeling. “Umm…so what relation is he to you?”

“He’s my godson,” Santana said proudly. 

“You have a godson?”

She nodded. “Yep.”

“How did I not know that you had a godson?”

Santana actually gave a chuckle. “Well…you and I weren’t exactly trading tales of our daily lives, back when we were just screwing around, and we got married two weeks after I proposed. I’m sure there’s a lot of things that we’ve missed out on each other’s lives, but I want that to change. I want us, Quinn.”

Quinn sat back down, not taking her eyes off of Santana. “I want us, too, San, and I really need you to understand that you were never my first choice, because you were always my only choice. No one else ever came anywhere close.”


	20. White Cardigans & Red Hairbows

Quinn smelled coffee, and woke to the sound of Santana cursing in the kitchen, followed quickly by the sound of something falling against the counter. Quinn walked in to find a mess in the kitchen, and Santana washing her hand underneath the faucet, a slight pained expression on her wife’s face. “Did you burn yourself?” Quinn questioned, rushing over to Santana’s side to inspect the hand.

Santana held still as Quinn examined her. “It’s not like, burned, burned just ‘oh shit, that’s hot’ burned.”

Quinn decided that it would be alright, and satisfied that it wasn’t anything serious, she kissed her hand. “There, all better.”

Santana smiled, flexing the hand. “Yep, good as new.”

With the ‘crisis’ managed, Quinn became aware of the state of the kitchen. “What’s with,” and she gestured.

Santana, too, seemed to take in her surroundings. “I was trying to make eggs benedict,” she explained with a pout, staring with confusion at the mess on the counters. “I was making the hollandaise sauce, and was so concentrated on that, that I burnt the bacon, and I ended up knocking the bowl over when I realized that, and I stupidly reached for the pan, and well...” Santana raised the hand she’d soaked underneath the faucet.

Quinn tugged gently on Santana’s pulled back hair. “You burnt the bacon?” she growled. 

Santana gave an appraisal of her wife’s face. “Figures that’s all you heard.”

Quinn smirked, and kissed her hand again before she kissed her on the lips. “Would you expect any less from me?” she questioned rhetorically.

“Not really, but now I’ve got to start all over again, and you’re up so you won’t be surprised.”

Arms wrapped around Santana’s waist. Quinn planted a kiss at the top of her spine before resting her head against Santana’s shoulder. “No you don’t, San. I’ll eat whatever you cooked. And you don’t actually have to cook for me every other Saturday.” Quinn thought it was nice, and sweet, but she didn’t want Santana to feel as if it was something she _had_ to do. “I’m not going to hold you to that.”

Santana proudly puffed out her chest. “I hold myself to it,” she said in response. “Just like when we get our own place, I’m giving you full access to the driveway. When a Lopez makes a promise, she sticks to it.”

“Fabray-Lopez,” Quinn reminded her. 

Santana smiled, and leaned in to the kiss. “Fabray-Lopez,” she repeated. They would have started making out like two teenagers right then, but Santana seemed to be focused on trying to rescue whatever she could from the elaborate meal she’d been preparing, so the kiss was cut short. “But that brings up a point,” she said, giving the sauce a quick stir. “When’re you going to drop the charade and like drop the _Fabray_?”

Quinn pretended to think about it. “Umm…never.”

“Come on, it’s just a formality! We both know eventually you’re going to drop it, and it’s otherwise hella long to always say Fabray-Lopez. I swear I didn’t get an office invite to Manpreets Ayali’s baby shower because our names are so long!”

“Quit pretending. I know you secretly always wanted to be a part of the distinguished Fabrays.”

“Wrong preposition there, babe. I’ve secretly always wanted to be _in_ a Fabray,” she replied. “Not of them.”

Quinn nuzzled the back of Santana’ neck, stroking the soft skin on the front. “Oh, you want to be in a Fabray, huh?”

Santana gave a little helpless nod. “In, on, around.”

“Did you ever have a fantasy about me when we were in high school?” Quinn questioned curiously.

“Are you kidding? Who didn’t? You’re Quinn freaking Fabray.”

Quinn’s curiosity was piqued. “When?”

Santana rolled her eyes at Quinn wanting her ego stroked. “When did I not, babe? We were cheerleaders, and wore those extremely, short skirts.” She tapped Quinn on the nose. “And don’t think I missed you checking me out back then, either. I’m surprised no one else caught you looking at my ass back in Chasity Club. _It’s all about the teasing-_ ”

“And not about the pleasing,” she finished without even thinking about it. Quinn thought about her checking out Santana’s ass while she twirled around in her skirt, and found her hands moving to cup her ass because she could have as much of it now as she wanted, and she couldn’t imagine ever having enough of Santana.

“Erm…babe?” Santana wiggled in her arms. “What’s up?”

“I married Santana Lopez,” Quinn said in shock.

A curious looked passed on Santana’s face. “Yea, kind of old news. It’s been more than two months.”

She took a step back. “No, give me a moment. I just realized that I married Santana Lopez. Like we’re married, you and me, right now.” Somehow that fact had never exactly settled on her. Yes, she had thought about the fact that she had randomly married the woman she’d been sleeping with for nine years, but somehow that woman she’d been sleeping with hadn’t translated in her mind to being that same girl from high school.

“And people believe you’re a genius,” Santana deadpanned. “Who’d you think you married? Rachel Berry?”

Quinn cleared her throat. “What I mean is, you’re that girl that I had sleepovers with, and we used to paint our nails, and plan out our dream wedding, and oh who was it that you claimed you were going to marry?”

“Victor Garber.”

“Victor Garber,” Quinn said in tandem. “That should have been a dead giveaway that you were swinging for the other team right there.”

Santana pretended to be offended. “What? He’s handsome and sweet.”

“And old enough to be your dad’s uncle. And also, gay. And your obsession with Angela Basset? Gay.”

“I was admiring her arms!” Santana protested. “She’s got serious man arms, but she’s still so feminine! Those arms were like a work of art.”

“But you’re that girl,” Quinn went on, back to the thought that triggered this conversation. The thought that was so unbelievable, it never really occurred to her before. “You’re the one I used to fight with, and fight against. You’re the one who held me at Prom so I could stand on my feet, and whose boyfriend I slept with and got pregnant by, and the one who I was constantly fighting for top position against.”

“Which I remind you, you only get because I like the view.”

Quinn’s features took on a certain cockiness. “ _I_ married Santana Lopez.”

Santana laughed. “Yea, you did,” she agreed. “And as such, you need to get on the full privilege of marrying me, and actually take my name.” Santana pressed her hand to her chest, a vision of concern. “It’s not an ego thing, I’m just thinking about everyone else in our lives, you know? ‘Sides, in our society names get passed down through the male side, neither of us is male, no, but we agreed that I’m like the butchest of us all.”

“I don’t recall ever agreeing to that!”

“I sleep on the left side of the bed! That’s the protector’s spot!”

“At your place. Here you sleep on the right.”

“I did my taxes last year.” Quinn started to cut her off, but Santana added, “Alone,” before Quinn could offer protest that she did her taxes ever year. She had her on that one; Quinn had never done her taxes for herself. But wait, what did taxes have to do with manliness? Taking care of finances was typically the woman’s realm.

“You cried during Bambi!”

Santana gasped. “Oh that’s just low, Flopez! You know my kitten just died. And it was allergy season!”

“Oh, yeah, sure!”

“You watched _Friends._ ”

“Guys watch friends.”

“No they don’t. No seriously, they really don’t. Unless they’re gay. And anyways, I’m a superhero, which means I win because all the great super heroes are guys. Superman, Batman.”

“Batman’s not a superhero. He’s a citizen with money, that doesn’t make him _super._ And what about Wonder Woman? Xena?”

“Xena wasn’t a superhero.”

“She totally is. The Black Widow? Colleen Wing and Misty Knight?”

“Oh please!” Santana eyed what she had on the stove before turning to look at Quinn. “They are just female versions of male superheroes.” She gave Quinn a teasing kiss. “And the fact that you even know who those people are is so fucking hot babe.” 

Quinn’s hands slipped beneath Santana’s wife beater. “I love how you just admitted that you were a superhero.”

Santana gave a cocky shrug. “Well, some might consider me to be. Especially in bed. I’m like Sex-cessor.” Her voice adopted an announcer’s tone. “Usurping thrones, and saving the world, one orgasm at a time.”

Quinn gave Santana’s breast a teasing, but hard, twist. “I better be the only one that’s getting those orgasms,” Quinn said, knocking her hip into Santana’s.

“Ow, watch it, babe, it’s a hot stove, and yes, yes you are. But you got to admit, we do a lot of saving.”

Quinn grinned, blushing. Santana turned the stove off. She did her best to reconstruct the meal with what she had, and Quinn pretended that it was perfect, because really, when you got down to it, it was. And if the bacon was a little hard, or the sauce a little rubbery, she couldn’t really say she noticed.

“Add lots of prep space in the kitchen to our hardwood floors on our sex spaces,” Santana said in between bites of food. Quinn must have frowned because Santana explained, “In our place?” Quinn was nearly embarrassed at how much she like hearing those two words together. “Because if you’re going to be cooking five star meals for me, you’re going to need a top notch kitchen.”

“I’ve been thinking-,”

“Uh oh,” Santana said, scooping up some Hollandaise sauce that was trying to escape, “we both know how bad a thing that is!”

Quinn rolled her eyes. “When are we going to start looking for our place?”

Santana paused, looking up from her food. She looked confused. “Too soon.”

Thinking that Santana meant that it was too soon to consider moving in together, Quinn quickly backtracked. “Well, I just thought that…you brought it up so…but I guess-,”

“I meant,” Santana said sharply, cutting through Quinn’s rambling, “it’s too soon to start looking for a place. We can talk about it, if you like, but there’s no point in looking because then we’re just going to find something that we really like, and it won’t still be for sale when we’re ready to buy, and that would just be sad, and disappointing.”

Quinn worked her way through Santana’s statements. “Why…I’m confused. You _want_ to move in together?”

“Yes,” she said emphatically.

“But you _don’t_ want to move in right now?”

“We can’t move in together right now,” Santana stated. She paused, realizing where the confusion was, and then frowned. “Wow,” she whispered softly. “Okay, so complete breakdown in communication, here. I just realized that we haven’t had this conversation before because you didn’t _want_ to move in together.” There was both surprise and hurt evident in her voice as she spoke, and Quinn had trouble placing it.

“Y _ou_ wanted to move in together before now?”

“Well, yeah. I wouldn’t have minded getting a place together as soon as you said yes to getting married,” Santana surprisingly said.

This was honestly news to Quinn who figured that Santana wanted to keep her own place for the sake of having a getaway, even if they didn’t sleep apart (except for those two days that no one’s counting). “You never even mentioned it, though, so I thought-.”

“I told you I would give you the garage, ergo that heavily implies that you and I would, at some point, be moving in together.”

“Yes, but I thought the reason we haven’t had this conversation was because you didn’t want to. We talked about everything else, but you didn’t even talk about this…other than the garage thing.” Quinn couldn’t figure out what had been said to make Santana look so hurt.

“Yeah because I thought the only reason we hadn’t gone looking for a place yet was because we were just being practical, adult. I have another two months left on my lease, and you have another six.”

Quinn’s jaw nearly dropped at how rational Santana sounded. “Seriously t _hat’s why_ you never brought it up?”

Santana frowned, nodding. “Why’d you think?”

“I thought it was about keeping your distance.”

“Quinn, babe, although your apartment screams _A single Wasp in Suffolk County_ , and you snore, I don’t hate that enough to not want to move in with you. I just don’t want to have to shell out the money to buy out my lease, and I don’t want to pay for an apartment I never use.” She shrugged. “I assumed the same was true for you.”

Quinn appraised the dejected looked that coated her wife’s features. She found her hand reaching forward to comfort her. “I thought it was because you were just playing around, San. I’m sorry. We _really_ need to learn to start communicating better with each other, huh?”

Santana snorted. “Why? It’s obvious we’re doing such a fantastic job without talking.” Santana moodily took a bite of her English muffin.

“We’re talking now,” Quinn pointed out. “So when your lease is up in two months, you’re going to move in with me?”

“No, I am temporarily taking residence at your place until we find one of our own, but I’m not moving in with you. When you move into your girlfriend’s or wife’s apartment, you’re moving into their space, and no matter how much time passes, it’s still _theirs_. _”_

“Are you speaking from experience?”

“Not mine, but yes.”

Quinn corrected her earlier statement. “So, you’re ‘temporarily taking up residence’ in my place, and in six months we’ll start looking for our place?”

“Or I could just extend my contract until February when yours expires if you want to keep your play space.”

“Don’t be stupid, Santana, and don’t be petty over something that we never mentioned.”

Santana’s pout lasted a few more seconds before she went back to eating. Things seemed to be settling back into a lull again when Quinn questioned absently, “So how do you know how much time I have left on my lease?” Despite slowly learning to not be surprised by anything that Santana said or did, she couldn’t help but be surprised by the things that Santana said and did.

“I’ve said this once, I’ll say it again. We’ve known each other for fourteen years, Quinn, and have been having sex for nine. I have a mind like a vice. There is little I don’t know about you. I know what undies you prefer, I know what shampoo you use and why you change it when you do, I know how to make you orgasm in like 33 seconds flat, and yet you’re really surprised that I know when you move in? Hell, I know what _position_ we were in when we were having move-in sex.”

“But yet you routinely forget to take out the trash.”

Santana waved the words away. “Minor details.”

Quinn’s eyebrow rose, with a look on her face that was midway between horny face and morbid curiosity. “What position _were_ we in?”

Santana’s tongue darted out to moisten her lips. She looked around the room and settling on the counter, walked over to it. She opened one of the bottom drawers. “It was kind of weird. I was normal, but you were kind of sprawled, like this.” She kicked her leg up to balance on the drawer, and spread the other one as far as she could. “I had the strap on, and you were leaning on some boxes, with your foot cocked up on one of them, because your sofa still had plastic on it, and you complained about the noise it was making whenever your ass ground into it.” Quinn realized that she was flat out gawking at her wife. “Oh, and we’re definitely getting rid of that sofa once we move in together…cause I hate it.”

She blinked. “I can’t believe you remember that.”

Santana’s look was incredulous. “That I hate your sofa? It’s right there in the other room. You don’t forget ugly…Oh! _That?_ I’m surprised you don’t, I had you walking funny for a week. And I never forget great sex.”

Apparently not. Quinn wondered if Santana’s powers could be used for good, too. “Do you remember things about me that aren’t sex related?”

“Like what?”

Quinn decided to go for ambitious. “What was I wearing the first day we met?”

Santana chuckled. “That’s easy. A Cheerio outfit. That was like forever ago. How am I supposed to know that?”

“Okay, what’s my favorite movie?

“I can’t remember _everything_ ,” Santana protested. “But on that note, do you think that we should get rid of Gianna?”

“How is that on the same note?”

“Because you were asking me what you were wearing when we met, I was thinking of what you’re wearing underneath your clothes, and thus Gianna. Do you?”

Quinn paused. Gianna had been with them for five years. She was kind of attached. “Why?”

“She’s my bachelor dildo,” Santana explained, as if there was nothing more logical. “I mean, don’t you think we should have a married one? Maybe add an inch for luck?”

Quinn was kind of thinking that it was rude of them to be discussing Gianna without her being in the room to hear the conversation and to offer her objections. “Isn’t a person’s sex toy like an extension of their body?” she posed rhetorically. A nagging thought occurred to her, and she knew she probably shouldn’t have asked, but the question came without filter. “Did you ever use your ‘bachelor dildo’ on anyone else?”

She tensed as soon as the words were spoken, realizing immediately that she’d rather not have an answer to that question at all. Santana seemed unsurprised that Quinn had asked, but she didn’t even stop to think about the answer. “No,” she said quickly. “If I hooked up with a girl who wanted to play like that, they had to bring their own. The only pussy that Gianna has gotten to taste, you know other than mine, is yours.”

Quinn cringed at the vulgarity, but smiled well…because. “I feel like I should feel honored.”

“You should,” Santana agreed. “So, yes on the new dildo? I think it’d be fun to visit a sex shop together. We’ve never done that before; I love to see your face once you realize what anal beads or for.”

“I know what anal beads are for,” she snapped. “Is that what you wanted to do today? Look at sex shops?”

“While there’s no time like the present, no. I’m kind of already booked solid today. Do you think that you can be all beautified up and sexified for me by 3:00?”

“Sexified as in tight jeans, shirt hanging off of the shoulder or…”

“Meeting the boss,” Santana clarified.

Quinn quirked an eyebrow. “We’re _not_ meeting your boss tonight are we?”

Santana laughed as if she wished that she had thought to do that. “No.”

“What’re we doing?”

“In the immortal words of my mother, ‘If you wait long enough, you’ll see’. Oh, which reminds me, we should probably call her.”

Quinn snapped to attention. “We should, I just remembered. Mom needs to know about the music. Do we want a DJ, and are we going to honor dad’s request about the mariachi band, and are the-”

“If the end to that statement is ‘Glee kids going to perform’, the answer is a hells no.”

Quinn was unsurprised by either the guess or the response. The old New Directions had kind of separated into three camps. The Bostonites: Quinn, Santana, Brittany, Mercedes, (and although he didn’t actually live in Boston) Puck. The New Yorkers: Rachel, Klaine, and Artie, and the Lima Lifers: Mike, Tina, and Sam. There wasn’t much interaction between the three groups. “It would be like old times.”

“Rachel’s the one that said that, didn’t she?” Santana questioned suspiciously. “What old times? When we were Rachel Berry and the Pips? I’s repeats hells no! Rachel and a microphone are not allowed within 20 feet of each other at the reception. And why the hell does dad want a mariachi band? He’s not Mexican.”

“Because, and this is a direct quote, ‘I didn’t allow Maribel to have one at our wedding, and I want Santana to be proud of all of her heritage’.”

“A dios mio! You know what? Fine. Let him have his damn mariachi band, but if we do, you are going to learn how to do a proper zapateado dance, and salsa, too, because once you open that hat for las personas de edad, you can’t close it. Just warning you.”

Quinn was thinking that as long as it entailed Santana dancing in a form fitting dress with a split up the side, she was okay with that. “Who’s going to lead?”

“I’ll let you,” Santana said after a moment’s thought.

“Hah,” Quinn crowed. “That’s all the proof I need! I win! I’m the man! Wait,” Quinn paused, as she realized the words she was saying. “That doesn’t sound right. You do realize we’re both women right?”

Santana gave her a very seductive wink. “Trust me, I’ve noticed, and noticed, and noticed that you are all woman, Quinnie.”

“Why do people assume that in a lesbian relationship there has to be a ‘man’ and a ‘woman’? Like there’s no relationship without a man in it?”

“It’s just a joke, babe,” Santana informed her. “At least with me anyway. And I said you could lead because I’m better in heels, and it’s not easy to dance backwards.” Santana seemed to be concentrating on something. “Did you just call yourself a lesbian?”

“Bi, whatever.”

“No, I think you just made a Freudian slip there. You called yourself a les.”

“I refuse to allow you to diminish my bisexuality and continue the harmful tradition in America that one has to be either gay or straight.”

“I don’t think that at all. Brittany’s completely bi, and she’s married to a woman, but…have you ever actually had sex with a man and liked it?”

“I enjoyed sex with Puck very much,” Quinn said. “Sure not the time that he got me pregnant, but when we were dating? After he got some real experience.”

“Egh don’t remind me. I’m still not cool with the fact that you’ve slept with my lesbro.”

“ _You’ve_ slept with your…did you really just say ‘lesbro’? And I had a baby with him, too.”

“Yeah, in the past, fine, but that you were sleeping with him, and me. Like what was that about?”

Quinn had never really thought about it before, but how did that particular situation work between Puck and Santana? Quinn knew, because the two of them didn’t keep secrets from each other, that Puck knew that Quinn and Santana were sleeping together, but how did that bode for their friendship? Did they keep score? Pass along notes? “Was the fact that the two of you were both sleeping with me make things weird between you?”

From the look on her face she could tell that Santana had honestly never thought about it before. “Nah, I mean, it wasn’t like you’d leave me and go curl up to Puck. When you were sleeping with him, you weren’t sleeping with me, and I don’t even count you two sleeping together because you guys saw each other how often? And anyway, Puck had his side action, I had my side action, and I was your side action, so I figure everyone was happy.”

“Yeah, but like when he and I ended it, were you there to comfort him? And was it really a comfort to him to know that you were still sleeping with me when he couldn’t?”

“It’s not that I was advertising that you and I were fucking around, but Puck knew the score.”

Quinn didn’t know if Santana had slipped up and said that, or if she knew what she’d said. Either way, that statement needed some clarification. “And what _was_ the score?” Quinn posed.

Santana momentarily looked sheepish, but she answered anyway. “I was there, and he wasn’t. He was always going to be traveling, and your career would always take precedence, so you two were never going to fit together. You know like one of those puzzle pieces that looks like it should fit, but it just doesn’t? That was you two. But while he was willing to let you go, I wasn’t.”

Quinn felt her breath catch as she worked through what Santana had said. Quinn had pretty much had deep seated feelings for Santana for a very long time, but since it was something she never thought she’d act on, it was far easier to push the feelings away than to deal with them. “What does that mean?”

Santana gave Quinn her ‘it’s lucky you’re pretty, cause you’re an idiot’ look. “What do you think, Quinn? For the sake of sounding repetitive: _nine_ years. It means that Puck let the fact that there was always going to be space between you stop you guys, and I never let anything stop us. I mean I suffered through, Puck, and Biff, and Patches, and Michael, and Martin, and Cornell, like seriously what parent names their kid after an Ivy League School? And, I don’t even remember that girl that you went on two dates with name, but I abided them all, because I knew what I wanted. The tortoise and the hare, Quinn. Tortoise and the hare.”

Quinn was only getting more and more confused the more Santana talked. “What?”

Santana balked. “Jesus, what are they teaching you kids in school these days, oi! Slow and steady wins the race?” Santana stood up, and kissed Quinn on the forehead. “I’m going to go take a shower while you work that out. And while you’re thinking it over, you should clean up the kitchen. It does wonder for brain function!”

Quinn would have responded, but she was just too stunned. She was vaguely aware of Santana leaving the room, and she heard the shower come on, but she was back in the last conversation, replaying it in her mind.

* * *

While Santana was sure that Quinn had nearly had an aneurism trying to figure out what to do on their date, Santana’s plan for the evening was far more simplistic: dinner, movie, romantic walk. Simplistic. Santana left Quinn’s around 1:30 to go back to her apartment to get ready. Santana had stopped bothering to straighten her hair sometime around sophomore year of college, but for tonight she felt it warranted it so she could achieve those big, voluminous waves that looked so good on her. She set about plugging up her rarely used flat irons, and put on some tunes to jam to. While she was waiting for the iron to heat up, she looked longingly at her game system, and wondered what Puck was up to.

She called him and him on speaker. “Latin spice!” Puck greeted.

“Seriously, Puck, is that the best you can do?”

“What? You told me that I couldn’t call you Flopez; I’m working it out. So that’s a no on Latin Spice? Like the Spice Girls?”

“I swear if you start calling me that, and I’ll start calling you Noah.”

Puck grumbled something underneath his breath at that. “Shelly refuses to let anyone she introduces me to, call me anything other than Noah. Dude, I haven’t been ‘Noah’ since I was like eight years old. I mean what gives?”

“Big boys have big boy names. Williams don’t get called Billy forever.”

“Ah shut up. Wives, I tell you. What’s up with you on that front?”

Santana tested the heat. “Things are good. I’m taking her out tonight, actually. Just waiting for the flattening irons to warm up so I can tackle my hair. I thought about playing Underworld while I waited, but that games like potato chips. You can’t play just one level.” Puck snickered. “What’re you and Shelly doing today?”

“ _Shelly’s_ out shopping for flowers. I’m working on the back deck, because Shelly needs something to connect the back door to the back yard, and supposedly I’ll thank her next year when I’m gripping. I just stopped inside for a beer break when you called.”

“You’re building a deck? You must really think this assignment is semi-permanent.”

“That’s what I’m hoping for,” Puck said wistfully. This was Noah’s third base since he graduated from A-school. “I like Illinois. Belleville is almost exactly the same size as Lima, but St. Louis is only 30 minutes away, tops. We can go out on the town, have a blast, and then come back home to our nice, quiet neighborhood. I wouldn’t mind staying here, even if I wasn’t still in the military.”

“You thinking on getting out?”

“Not really, but you never know what’s going to happen.”

“Yea,” Santana said in an apologetic voice. “I was actually thinking about taking a trip to see Jenna. Bury the hatchet.”

“You don’t have to do that, if you’re thinking on doing that for me. I told you I can handle myself, and life’s too short to really worry about it. I have been thinking, though, about what I’d do if I got out, so I’ve been looking into taking some college classes. I think it’d be totally legit if I got to stay in the Air Force for 20 years, and then retire, but you never know. If I do stay that long, I don’t want to be enlisted the whole time, you know? I can finish out a tour, then re-enlist but this time as an officer. I’m just thinking on the future, you know? Gotta have a plan.”

Santana nodded. “It’s a good plan,” she assured him. She had been somewhat critical of Puck’s decision to go into the military, back when he made it, because she always thought of the military as something that _other_ people did, as a last ditch effort or what not, but Santana didn’t feel that way so much anymore. Her job was no more a guarantee than his. In theory her company could leave Boston, and with no warning to her, or she could get offered a promotion (or a demotion) or Quinn could, and they’d either have to live, or lose their job. The only difference was that they could always quit and Puck couldn’t.

“Are you so suddenly so focused on the future because you and Shelly are looking to bring some more Puck’s into the world?”

“We’ve talked on it. We’re not planning anything. Like we’re not trying to get pregnant right now, but we’re not not trying either. I’d love a kid. Well, another one. One I actually get to raise. Teach how to play little league.”

“You going to be the soccer dad?” Santana teased.

“I’d love to be. My dad wasn’t there for me in any capacity growing up. I’m not going to be that way with my kid. I love Shelly, and I would adore any children we made together.”

“I think you’d make a great dad, Noah.” Santana knew just how much Puck felt regret over having to give up Beth. He had always wanted to keep her; he only signed the papers because Quinn wanted it so bad. Surprisingly, though, giving up Beth didn’t make him at all bitter towards Quinn; he still loved her. Luckily enough for Santana, it was as something that was more than a friend, but not quite a lover. He was in Beth’s life as much as possible, but it still wasn’t anywhere close to the same as getting to raise her.

Santana kind of new what Puck was going through. The watching from afar, part. She missed out on so much of Phil’s life. She tried to make the big moments, but the small things, the climbing into bed because he had a nightmare, or fixing an ouchie, those she missed. Also, there was so much that Hazel did, or didn’t do, that Santana wished that she did differently, but knew she had no real say in it. Phil called her mama, but she never really thought of him as being her son. Hers, yes, the same way Quinn, her dad, mom, and cousins were hers, but never her son.

“I saw Hazel the other day,” she informed Puck. “He’s almost five, Puck.”

In his answering response he sounded as caught off guard by that as she was. “Has it been that long?”

“Yeah.”

“Wow, time.”

“I know! He outgrew his pajamas since the last time I visited. I swear he’s a little bigger every time I see him. There’s this part of me that wants to be there for every single thing that he does, and then there’s that other part that’s like, the moment I insert myself full on in his life, something’s going to happen. She’s going to leave.”

“Have you told Quinn about him?”

“Yea. The other day.”

“ _What’d_ you tell her?”

“The Cliff’s Notes. She’s going to meet him tomorrow, actually, and even though he’s supposed to be coached not to give out information, most likely he’s going to say something that will bring up a question, cause that’s what kids his age do. If he does, I’ll answer whatever question she asks as best as I can.”

“Yeah? How do you think she’ll take it?”

Santana was pretty sure she knew. “She’ll probably freak out, we won’t talk, we’ll talk, and after, I don’t know.”

“Hey, can you do me a favor?”

“What’s that?”

“Can you buy him a really nice glove? I’ll send you the money for it, just get him a glove, and a set of balls, and tell him it’s from Daddy Puck?”

“You don’t have to repay me for it.”

“I do. Cause if you weren’t going to see him tomorrow, I’d mail it myself, and I want him to know it’s from me. Will you?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you.”

“You know you don’t even have to ask me about doing stuff for you. Especially not with him.”

Santana kept Puck on speaker until Shelly came back home, and then she got hung up on. By this time, her hair was done, and Santana had started in on her make up. As she worked to perfect the arch of her eyebrow, she couldn’t help smiling to herself. She thought it was ridiculous that she was this excited about going on a date with her wife, but she was, and she didn’t care if it was silly or not.

She had a time trying finding something to wear, and the heels that she wanted were over at Quinn’s. She was stridently opposed to the idea of moving into Quinn’s apartment, (she’d heard enough horror stories about moving into your girlfriend’s place) but she couldn’t deny that things would be so much easier when all of their things were all together in the same place. Two of the outfits that Santana considered were at Quinn’s, and she ended up changing her outfit three times before she finally settled on a green and white patterned dress that fitted firmly, but didn’t hug her form completely.

Traffic was heavy, but she just managed to make it upstairs and was knocking on the door at 3:00. When Quinn opened the door, Santana just stood in the doorway, staring. Quinn was breathtaking. She looked like a casual summer day, but yet was still so sophisticated. She was wearing one of her more formal sundresses, her hair was pinned up, and she wore simple tear drop earrings, and sandals that somehow didn’t detract from the concept of dressing up. She was a vision, and Santana didn’t mind staring.

At one point Santana might have considered herself to be self-conscious because she could never exude that country club look, but looking at Quinn now, just strengthened the feeling that they belonged together. That she and Quinn wouldn’t make sense being with anyone else. The Ken and Barbie combination of Sam and Quinn, or Quinn and Biff, just kind of carried this assumed stiffness that made you wonder if they even talked to each other, much less had an active and satisfying sex life. They made the kind of couple that you would speculate on how cute their children would come out looking. You never thought for a second that they were actually happy and in love.

But with them, Santana was beginning to get a handle on just how much they balanced each other out. Santana was beautiful, Quinn was gorgeous. Quinn was intense and closed off, Santana was loose and relaxed. Quinn had probably planned her birth, for the longest time Santana had gone through life with no clear destination in mind. It was funny, in a way, because now Santana knew exactly where she was going.

“You look…you’re a vision, Quinn.”

Quinn smiled brilliantly at Santana and Santana smiled back. The two of them just stood there, staring at each other, until Santana remembered that they were on a timeline. Santana helped Quinn pull her light summer cardigan over her shoulders, shaking her head because as much as the two of them changed over the years there were still parts of them that hadn’t and never would.

Downstairs, a limo was waiting for them. Santana waved off the driver, opening the door for Quinn who, after giving Santana a look, got into the limousine. Santana slide in beside her. On the seat, carnation pedals had been spread out, and there was a bottle of wine already opened and on ice. Santana poured each of them a glass, and raised it. “To our second date,” she toasted.

Their first stop of the night was the Public Garden. They started with a fifteen minute swan boat ride on the lagoon, before taking a leisurely stroll through the gardens. “I wanted to get you flowers, but I couldn’t figure out which ones to get, so I decided to give you all of them,” Santana said grandly.

She had studied for this date, so Santana played tour guide, pointing out the different varieties of trees and other flora that they passed both while they were on the lagoon, and once they were on land again. Because it was the middle of summer the gardens were incredibly vibrant and alive. Quinn seemed to want to take everything in, and she lingered. Her hand stayed tucked firmly inside of Santana’s, and they could have been all alone for how much they noticed the people around them. Santana wanted to stay long enough for the lights to come on, because the Garden at night was just as magical, but they had dinner reservations at the Rialto.

Santana knew that she had chosen the right restaurant as soon as they exited the limousine. The Rialto had been around for years and was consistently a four star dining experience. Santana and Quinn were looked on curiously when they exited the limo, but Santana failed to notice the appreciative looks, because her mind was on other things. Once Quinn was seated, Santana excused herself to use the restroom, and by the time she was back in her seat, the waitress was already at their table.

Santana wanted to order the duck, but years of living with Rachel (and hearing what they did to them, plus Brittany and her obsession) guilted her into order the lamb arrosto instead, and Quinn chose the seared sea scallops. Like their first date, they talked. They filled each other in on parts of their lives that the other missed out on. They played footsie beneath the table, and Santana ate right handed so that she and Quinn could hold hands above the table. Just as they were finishing eating, Quinn heard singing, and she swiveled in her seat to see what poor sap was getting sung to. Santana sat back and watched the progression of Quinn’s thoughts as the staff slowly made their way to their table, the mimosa cake leading the charge, one small flickering candle resting atop of it.

“It’s not my birthday,” Quinn hissed.

Santana shrugged, still laughing. “Yeah, but I figured I missed one or two along the way.”

They took the desert to go, as well as the dinner that Santana had ordered for the driver, and were driven out to a lot that had a view of Logan Airport. They sat on the back of the limo, and watched planes take off as they slowly ate the cake, crumb by crumb. “If you could get on any plane, right now, where would you go?” Quinn questioned as a 717 flew by overhead.

“Iquitos, Peru,” Santana said after giving it a moment to think about it. “They call it the city of love. They say that you’re not in love when you get there, you will be by the time you leave. Where would you go?”

Santana felt Quinn nuzzle further into her. “I can’t imagine any place better than where I am right now.”

The movie was RENT and it played on a portal Blu-Ray player. Santana had thought about actually going to a movie theatre, but there were no great summer blockbusters out right now. There was some sci-fi action flick with Zendaya in it, and some ‘sophisticated, motivational, I might be old, but I’m still Brad Pitt’ film, but neither of them seemed worth watching, and Quinn still hadn’t seen the play yet. Quinn was spellbound by the singing of _Seasons of Love_ (which wasn’t the actual first son in the play), but she seemed to be otherwise frustrated with the movie. “I don’t get it,” Quinn said 30 minutes in. “Why don’t they just get _jobs_.”

Santana laughed, rather than answer because it had taken her three attempt to watch RENT to completion, and now it was like one of her favorite movie/plays ever.

Quinn was starting to nod off by the end of the movie, so they got back in the limo and headed home. One at the apartment, Quinn was practically dragging her feet, so Santana helped Quinn undress, and helped her into bed. Santana undressed in the bathroom, going through a whole night time routine, because she figured that Quinn had merely rolled over and gone to sleep. So she was surprised and amused to see Quinn struggling to stay awake, waiting for Santana to crawl into bed. Santana hovered over her to give her a kiss. 

“I really, really enjoyed this.”

“I had a good time, too,” Quinn said, yawning. She opened her arms, and Santana backed into them. “Can I run something by you?” Santana’s voice was tentative, but this was something that she had been thinking about for a while, and she wanted to get it off of her chest. “I think we may have missed something, by not dating. In Narnia, there’s this garden, and at the entrance of it there’s a sign that says come in by the gold gates or not at all, and I know it’s a reference to something biblical, but I think there’s something to it. You know, like I think that we keep clashing with each other because we didn’t come into us by the front gate. So we keep doing things backwards.”

Santana could feel Quinn tense, and knew she was suddenly more awake. Santana turned so that they were facing each other, and saw the fear in her eyes. “What does that mean?”

“I think we should cool things down a bit.” Santana hesitated a second, but didn’t take her eyes from Quinn’s. She reached for her hand and held it closely to her. “Like with the sex. I’ve been thinking about it a lot, and I think that part of the reason that things got so crazy is because over the past couple of years we’ve just kind of been _all_ about the sex, and then we were doing this marriage thing, and, I don’t know, our brains couldn’t process other purposes, so we shorted out, like a computer that doesn’t have enough memory to function, and anyway…I guess what I’m trying to say is that I want to function with you, babe.

“If we’re going to make a decent bid on forever, we’ve got to work out how to be together. How to be friends again. It the sex is what messed us up, then we got to find a way to fix things. I know that I mention it a lot, and that I’ve made several allusions to it, but I see that we both have residual resentment for how we treated each other. It’s never _just_ sex, and we sacrificed actually intimacy and settled on merely intercourse when what I feel for you is so much stronger than that.

“I enjoy spending my time with you. I enjoy cooking breakfast for you, and sharing my life with you, and discovering new things about you, and I want to keep doing it. And I think that we get hurt by each other so frequently because we don’t feel secure. I know I once said otherwise, but I want to provide you with that sense of security. I’m sorry that I kind of brushed aside what you were saying when you wanted to talk about our future in New York, and I still can’t cross the line, so maybe we could meet each other halfway?”

Santana waited anxiously while Quinn stared at her in quiet appraisal. At the moment, her eyes were mostly hazel, and showed no expression whatsoever.

“How long are you thinking we should cool it for?” she finally questioned, and Santana let out a breath in relief. “Until after the reception?”

Santana shook her head determinedly. “That’s only a few weeks away. I was thinking more along the lines of until we moved in together.”

“Until we move in together as in you move into my apartment, or-,”

“When we have both of our names on paperwork at a new place.”

It was quiet for a whole minute. “So you want to go 6 months without sex?” Quinn sounded doubtful, and Santana stiffened. Slow release of breath. “I think it’d be good for us.”

“You’re serious about this?”

Santana nodded. “Yes.”

“Do we at least get to have good-bye sex?”

Santana gave a crooked smile. “Are you going somewhere?”

“No…”

“Then where’s the good-bye? Oh, but there’s something that I want to put down on our page, just so that we’re clear on it.”

Again, there was a fearful look. “What’s that?”

“Okay, so I know that I kind of yelled that you could sleep with someone else just as long as you let me know, but I was just kind of really mad when I said that, and I’m kind of really not cool with the idea of you hooking up with anyone else, because I don’t really want to share, and I know you don’t either. I haven’t actually thought of being with someone else, and I hope you’re not thinking about anyone else, either, because I think of you as mine.”

“So what you’re saying is that you want me to be exclusive with my wife?”

“Yes.”

“Even though she’s no longer putting out?”

Santana nodded. “Yes.”

Quinn smiled and shook her head. “I think I might be able to manage that. I want us to work, too. Once we were best friends, and we’re starting to be friends again, and it’s made me realize how much I missed you. I missed that connection that we once had. You’re the most important person in my life, San, and I never want to lose that again.”

Santana couldn’t help but push her lips against Quinn’s, intending for the kiss to be soft and gentle, but the feeling that surged through her at that connection to her wife, had her desperate for more. Quinn responded back just as eagerly and things heated up quickly, despite the conversation that they had just had. Santana ended up pulling back from Quinn with a small chuckle. “So…um…yeah.”

“Six months,” Quinn responded.

Santana made an executive decision. “Starting tomorrow,” she said, pulling Quinn back to her.

* * *

Santana lay against Quinn, listening to the rhythm of her heart beating, letting it lull her to sleep. Quinn reached over Santana to turn off the lamp. Eyes closed. After about 10 minutes of silence passed, Santana sighed, and Quinn adjusted her hold. She kissed the top of her head. Maybe another 20 minutes passed. “Babe?” Santana questioned. “Are you still awake?”

Quinn gave a soft groan because she was just at that point where she was almost asleep. “Wha?”

“ _The Joy Luck Club_ because after Tina mentioned them making it a play, you wanted to see what it was about, and you say that it helps you better understand the relationship you have with your mom. And a green and white gingham dress, a white embroidered cardigan, a red hair bow, and black Mary Jane’s.”

“That’s nice,” Quinn mumbled. Somehow, though, in her sleep daze, Santana’s words entered into her consciousness, and connected to something inside of her. With a jolt she opened her eyes. “What’d you say?” By this time Santana’s eyes were closed and she was on her way to drifting off, herself. “San!” Quinn hissed. Santana scowled as her eyes opened. Quinn pushed her. “What’d you say?”

“Oh,” Santana said, closing her eyes again. Blindly she reached for Quinn. “You asked me earlier what was your favorite movie, and what were you wearing on the first day we met. _Joy Luck Club_ , and a green and white gingham dress, a white embroidered cardigan, a red hair bow, and black Mary Jane’s. That’s what you were wearing the first time we met.”


	21. 8 Months, 2 Weeks, 2 Days

Quinn woke up to a boob in her hand, Santana’s to be more precise, her nipple pressed firmly into the palm of her hand. She didn’t really remember falling asleep, just falling into Santana, but she reasoned that since she just woke up, she must have first fallen asleep. She was almost positive, though, that she hadn’t fallen asleep with her hand on Santana’s breast, and Quinn smiled slightly, amused that unconscious Quinn seemed to crave her wife’s body as much as her conscious self did. Quinn leaned in and kissed Santana’s exposed shoulder blade.

Santana’s skin felt like silk beneath her lips. Unlike Quinn, who had either stretch marks on every conceivable surface of her body, Santana’s skin so far remained almost entirely unblemished. She didn’t even have freckles. Just smooth, caramel colored skin that went on for miles. Quinn laid kisses all along Santana’s upper body. She had skin that was perfect, that tasted as sweet as it looked. And lips…Quinn was sure it would take an entire day to describe in full detail just how much Quinn loved Santana’s lips.

“Babe, what’re you doing?” Santana whispered.

“Memorizing this body,” Quinn paused only long enough to answer. She gave Santana’s breast a squeeze when she realized that her hand hadn’t yet moved from it. “My body.”

Santana let out a soft breath of air. “It is your body,” she agreed.

Quinn continued to kiss along Santana’s shoulders and back, her breast hand lightly kneading, the other one, the one that had been buried underneath Santana while she slept, gently turned Santana over so she was properly beneath her. Santana’s eyes flopped open, and she smiled sleepily up at Quinn. Her eyelashes practically dusting her cheeks. “Hi.”

Quinn leaned down and kissed those lips that really needed its own song. She drew away from them slowly, reluctantly. “Good morning.” Quinn removed her breast hand, placing both of her hands on either side of Santana’s head. “Did you sleep well?”

“Mmm,” Santana buzzed. “I woke up even better than I slept.”

Quinn’s lips moved lower. “Did you?”

“Yep.” Santana nodded, watching Quinn kiss her way downwards. “What’cha doing?”

“What do you think?” Quinn questioned, continuing her movement.

Santana smiled. “That’s what I thought you were doing.”

“Spread your legs for me, San.”

Santana started to, moaning softly, but then she suddenly realized what she was doing, and her legs snapped closed. “Quinn!”

“What?” Quinn questioned, innocently.

Santana scrambled to cover herself up. “I was serious! Not until we move in together!”

Quinn rested atop Santana’s now closed legs. It wasn’t fair. She could smell Santana’s arousal. “You were really serious about that?”

“Yes!” Santana said firmly. She leaned over and picked up Quinn’s discarded shirt from last night, pulling it down over her head. “Consider this us dating, and pretend I was you circa freshman year.”

“But we’re _married_!” Quinn kind of whined. She pouted, “And you said I get to have sex with you whenever I want.” In a way it was funny. So far, the only one of those things that Santana had told Quinn she’d give her, or do for her if they got married, the only one she hadn’t stuck to was the sex whenever one, when Quinn would have thought that Santana would have eagerly acquiesced.

Once Quinn’s shirt was on Santana, she must have felt better protected, because she kissed Quinn on the lips. “And in six months, we can start that back up, I’ll let you take me up against a building in Times Square if you want, but right now we’re back to middle school rules.”

“Middle school?”

“Feet on the floor at all times, hands above the waist, folded over notes asking for permission to hold each other’s hands after class.”

“Really?”

“No, on the last part, but it would be cute, wouldn’t it?”

Quinn smirked. “Santana Lopez likes cute?”

“Santana _Fabray_ -Lopez likes a lot of things, and I want you to discover all of them, just like I want to discover all of you, which is why we’re doing this.”

“Okay,” Quinn said, reluctantly, her voice still a whine. “But how about we put a moratorium on that until… _Monday._ I mean no one really gives up sex on the weekends. It’s like Newton’s third law.”

“Funny, I could have sworn that was for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.”

“See, that’s not fair! You can’t be smart, and sexy, and tell me that I can’t have sex with you when I know you probably know the formula for that as well.”

“Force (F) sub 1 is equal to negative F sub 2,” Santana said cockily.

Quinn surged forward, pressing her lips against Santana’s. 

“Ah, geez, easy much, Luce? That’s like the easiest formula to memorize. That’s like spouting off the Pythagorean Theorem, it’s not even impressive.”

“No, but you’re still hella sexy Santana.”

“Did you say ‘hella’? Remember when you didn’t use to cuss?”

“Actually…no. I just turned on my filter at school, and you never did.”

“Cause I always gots to keep it real, Fabray. Check the credits.”

“So is that why you always went on about Lima Heights Adjacent? Cause you were keeping it real?”

Santana blushed. “Word.”

Quinn kissed her again. “Just one last time?”

“Communication is key to a happy marriage. I don’t think either of us wants to be stuck with the other for forever and be miserable. We need to figure out how to function without sex. In the past we’ve either solved our problems by slapping each other, getting into fights with each other, not talking with each other, or fucking each other.”

“The latter of which I am very much in appreciation of.”

Santana looked up to Quinn because Santana was always shorter than her wife in the mornings. “It’s only six months, babe. I thought I was supposed to be the horn dog in our relationship.”

Quinn fluttered her eye lashes at Santana. “You corrupted me, San; once you opened up that can of worms, you can’t close it back.”

Santana gave a sideways smirk again, and gave Quinn’s ass a slap. “I’m going to go take a shower, we should be leaving soon anyway, but I’ll be sure to go slow…you know in case you want to give yourself a helping hand.”

An hour and a half later, Santana and Quinn were in Santana’s car, heading toward Framingham. In the passenger seat, Quinn yawned, wishing she had remembered to pour herself a cup of coffee before they left the house. And Target. At least she had remembered to eat. “Does…your friend work in Boston.”

“Hazel,” Santana supplied, “No. She works at Barnes & Noble.”

“Is that why you have so many children’s books?”

“What do you mean?”

“You have a _lot_ of books, Santana.”

That smirk appeared on her wife’s face. “I do know how to read, you know.”

“I know you know how to read, but you’ve got an insane amount of kid’s books, especially since you don’t have a kid.” Quinn was sure she probably had more kid’s books than adult ones. “Like seriously, a lot. Why do you have so many children’s books?”

“In support of my senior thesis for psychology I had to do a lot of reading of children’s books, and I kind of got in the habit of collecting them.”

Quinn hated when Santana’s explanations sounded so plausible. “What was the paper on?”

“How groups represent otherness in literature, and how it affects the interpersonal relationships the readers develop and make throughout their lives. I still have the paper around the apartment somewhere if you ever want to read it. It ended up being like 35 pages,” she said proudly. “Not including the data!”

“So what was the paper on?” Quinn repeated.

“I know that wasn’t too difficult for you to understand, Quinn, you’re a Yale grad.” Santana rolled her eyes. “In more lay terms it’s about how authors present race and economy in books, and whether it effects the relationships the readers make on behalf of that. Of course it’s a moot point, because we don’t live in a vacuum, but I looked at how the protagonist is presented in a book, versus how the antagonist is. What physical traits are used to describe them? How does the author treat those traits? _Narnia_ is a great example, simply because there’s so much literature written about it, which means I got a lot of source material which,” she waved her hand. “I loved _Narnia_ as a kid growing up, but it always kind of made me uneasy when I read it, and I never understood why, until I went back and read it as an adult.

“As George Orwell so famously said, ‘all art is propaganda’. Children’s literature is a fascinating study, in my opinion, because it is where adults attempt to represent childhood rules of morality and fair play, as determined by adults. Like the vampires in _Interview_ _with_ _the_ _Vampire_ , who were vampires pretending to be humans, pretending to be vampires. That’s kind of the situation you get into when you have adults writing children’s books, because whereas children are far less biased towards other children, adults have let years of experiences, prejudices, and their own ideals, shape and determine their bias and that is reflected in their writing, no matter how subconscious it is.

“I could probably talk about the paper for hours, it’s one that I was intensely proud of, but you should probably just read it. If I can find it.”

“If I do, is it going to ruin _Narnia_ for me?” Quinn joked.

Santana gave a chuckle. “I doubt it. Maybe see it a different way, but not ruin it.”

“Is that how you met, Hazel? At a book store?”

“No.”

“How’d you meet?”

“We just kind of ran into each other, and she was cool people so we just started talking.”

“Did you sleep with her?”

“What’s with all the questions?”

“You want to communicate, I’m communicating. You’re close enough with someone that she made you the godmother of her kid, so I want to know about her.”

“Okay, sorry,” Santana said. “I never slept with Hazel. We’re not actually that close anymore. We were at the time that Phil was born, so she made me his godmother.”

“Did she go to BC?”

“No, she dropped out. She was at Northeastern a while back; before I moved to Boston, though.”

“Do you think she’s someone I’ll like?”

“I hope you’ll like her. Hazel doesn’t have many friends, and she gets really lonely. Right now all she has is me and Phil, and really she doesn’t have me that much. She doesn’t come to the city, and I can’t make it out here all that often. It’s only an hour there and back, but even on the days when I get off at 4:00, in order to spend even a few hours out here means I don’t come home until late, and I don’t want to be that kind of wife. Growing up, I kept a picture of my dad underneath my pillow so I wouldn’t forget what he looked like.”

“Really?” Santana straightened in her seat and didn’t answer. “I could start going to the gym,” Quinn volunteered.

Santana raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“Like, say on Thursdays. I could go to the gym, and join a book club, or me and Mercedes can have girlfriend nights, that way you could go visit, and you don’t have to worry about being neglectful or anything, especially since it’s only one night a week, and on the weekends, when we’re not doing stuff together,” Quinn cut herself off, because she was rambling.

Santana kissed Quinn on the hand. “You’re awesome, babe, you know that? I’ll think about it.”

“Of course it’d have to be after the reception, though.” Santana nodded.

“I wanted to run something by you that mom, my mom, brought up and I wanted to know what you thought?”

“Lay it on me, baby?”

“Do you want to have a ceremony? Mom thought that since we’re going to have all of the friends and family that weren’t there when we actually got married, which was everyone except Mercy and Brittany, that maybe we’d like to have like a re-do, and if you don’t want to, we don’t have to, I just thought I’d bring it up.”

“Quinn?”

“Yes?”

“Do you want to have a ceremony?”

“Yes,” she said enthusiastically. “Very much.”  
“Then I want to have a ceremony, too.”

Quinn smiled a big beaming smile. “Does that mean that you want a big, white wedding dress with lots of beads and bling on it, too?”

“No, I think I’ll be fine with a simple cocktail gown.”

“I think I’ll be fine with you in a simple cocktail gown. Bottle green, maybe?”

“Are you reprising the ‘drux’ from Puck’s wedding?”

“I hadn’t planned on it.”

Quinn’s thoughts turned to other things thinking about Santana wearing the dress, skirt combination. “Hey remember when we were going to Puck’s wedding, and you kind of like jumped me in the car?”

Her typical smirk appeared on her lips. “Yeah…”

“You want to have a repeat?”

Santana shook her head. “You’re going to be the death of me, you know that?”

Quinn played with Santana’s hand, and tried not to think of those skilled fingers being buried deep inside of her. “What’s the longest you’ve ever gone without sex?”

Santana sighed. “Quinn you are obsessing. I _know_ you’ve gone longer than six months without sex before, and right now it hasn’t even been a day.”

Santana didn’t see Quinn roll her eyes, but she knew that she did. “I’m not obsessing, I’m just curious, San. To be honest, I’ve never know you to go very long without it.”

“What if I don’t want to answer that?”

“Is it like a month or two? Two weeks?”

“15 years.”

At first Quinn thought that Santana had said months, and was surprised and wanted to call bull shit, but then she realized what Santana had really said. “Before you started having sex doesn’t count…wait…you were fifteen when you lost your virginity? I thought you lost it to Dean Cooper at winter formal freshman year.”

“You forget, Quinn, I’m practically a year older than everyone else because my birthday is so late in the year. And that’s such a dumb expression; I didn’t _lose_ it, I know exactly who it went to. It was at the _end_ of freshman year, the summer really because it was the last day of school. Dean tried, yes, but I said no, and he tried again, and when I said no the second time, he took me home. The next day everyone wanted to know if me and Dean had really had sex, and I just kind of didn’t tell anyone otherwise.”

“Even me.”

“No, I told you that I didn’t sleep with Dean and you didn’t believe me, remember? We didn’t talk for like two days because you thought I was lying to you.”

“So, who was your first, then? I know it had to have either been Puck or Brittany.”

Santana gave a sheepish looking grin. “It was kind of both. I mean Brittany and I were making out at Puck’s party, kind of like we always do, and then we ended up down in the basement, and one thing lead to another,”

“I get it.”

“Afterwards, I freaked out because I didn’t think that I was supposed to be feeling like this over a girl, so I dragged Puck away from whatever slut he was trying to bang, and…we had sex.”

Santana chanced a glance at her wife. “What’s that look for?” she questioned. “You know I’ve had sex with Puck, and you know I’ve had sex with Brittany; I told you right after it happened.”

“It’s silly I know, but I liked it better when you lost your virginity to Dean. Brittany was your first.”

“And you are my last,” Santana said. “Which do you think’s more important? I mean how many people can say that they tamed _the_ Santana Lopez?”

A mile passed in silence.

“Quinn?”

“You’re right. I…I’m making peace with it. So how long?” Quinn questioned, again.

“You don’t want to know the answer to that,” Santana warned her.

Quinn’s hulk poked her head out. “If I didn’t want to know, I wouldn’t have asked,” she snapped. Just as soon as it came on, it disappeared, and Quinn waited to see if Santana would just answer the question.

“Eight months, two weeks, and two days.”

Quinn blinked at how exact Santana sounded when she said that. It didn’t leave any room for Quinn to even doubt that the words were true. “Well that is…awfully precise.” Santana shrugged. Quinn waited, but Santana didn’t say anything. “Aren’t you going to ask me?”

“Babe, you only ask questions to the things that you don’t know the answer to.” Santana smiled. “I know the longest you’ve gone without having sex.”

“Really?” Quinn challenged. Santana nodded. She looked at her wife intently. “Okay, how long has it been?”

“That depends.”

Of course it did.

“On?”

“Whether or not you had sex with Finn junior year,” Santana surprisingly said. Quinn was surprised, because she was expecting Santana to make up some excuse to weasel information from her. “ _If_ you had sex with Finn, it’s a year and five months, if you didn’t it’s been two years and a month give or take a few weeks and a day. So which one is it?”

Quinn’s face was a near perfect mask when she replied, “I didn’t sleep with Finn.”

Santana’s hand came down triumphantly on the steering wheel. “Hah, knew it! But you must have had some really intense make out sessions together because you had this look, you know the one you get, baby, where you look intensely self-satisfied? God, I wonder how long you wore it after _we_ ’d had sex for the first time. I hate that I missed seeing it. I would have rode your ass so hard…Hmm…” Santana got real quiet. She stared almost meditatively at the road.

Quinn bit down on her lip, shifting on the seat. “You knew I was lying that night,” she realized. “When I suggested that I’d never had sex with a girl before?”

Santana briefly took her eyes off the road. “I did. But you looked so hot with your sex sheen and just fucked hair that I went with it. If it makes you feel better, I forgive you.”

“How’d you know?” Quinn was curious because she thought she had done a fairly good job of not being obvious about it, and most of that affair had happened during the summer.

“I told you, you have this look to you. And Brittany and I weren’t having sex that summer so I was _incredibly_ frustrated, which meant my instincts were incredibly fine-tuned, and after July you stopped with our make-out sessions which have _always_ been a kind of summer tradition.”

Quinn didn’t really know how to process this new revelation. “So you knew I wasn’t experimenting on Valentine’s Day?” Santana nodded. “Why’d you go along with it?”

“Are you kidding? I got to have sex with Quinn fucking Fabray. By my count only two other people had gotten to do that before I came along. I considered it a kind of social experiment. If having sex with some trash girl who makes out with truck drivers could turn you into a skank, what on Earth would become of you once you had a Lopez underneath your belt?” Santana did a kind of thrusting seat dance.

Quinn was too thrown off to really appreciate it, though. “I can’t believe you knew I had sex with Mack and pretended that you didn’t.”

“I can’t believe that you had sex with Mack and didn’t tell me. Besides, I only halfway count her because we both know she was just a Rachel Berry stand in, so I consider it as you really having sex with Rachel.”

“I wasn’t as in to her as you think I was.”

Santana snorted. “Oh, right, Quinnie. Is that why you made out with her that weekend in New York?”

“I told you, I was drunk!”

“Drunk words are sober thoughts. Drunken kisses are our heart’s wishes,” Santana sing-songed.

Quinn scowled. “You know know-it-alls are annoying as hell, right?”

Santana shrugged. “I can’t stop being the awesomeness that is Santana Lopez. I’ve tried turning it off, but could superman stop being super? Can Mr. Incredible, stop being incredible? My hands are tied, babe. I’m just awesome and I know it.”

“So to what do we owe this horrific eight month draught in the life of the awesome sex goddess Santana? Coma? Jail? Foreign Legion?” As she asked, she tried to rethink the instances over the years. She felt like she should remember because at the very least it had probably been an uncomfortable time period for the people in her life who’d had to deal with her. A sexually frustrated Santana was nobody’s friend.

Santana’s eyes flickered over Quinn’s. “Do you really want to know?” she questioned. Quinn nodded eagerly. Santana shrugged. “After sex, once, I told this girl that I loved her, as I held her. I whispered it in her ear, because I thought she was asleep. I’d never told her before. I was scared of saying it out loud because I’d only said those words to one other person before her, and that girl ended up rejecting me. I was terrified of being rejected again, but sometimes you just get to this point where you think you have to say it, or you’re going to explode…so I did. I guess she really wasn’t asleep after all because we didn’t talk to each other again for the next eight months.”

The smile froze on Quinn’s face. She licked her lips. “You didn’t sleep with anyone else during that time?”

“No. It took me about four months to realize that she was actively ignoring me, then two more before I thought about trying to go out and find someone to get under so I could get over her, but surprisingly enough, girls don’t seem to want to be around you when you can’t stop talking about the girl who broke your heart. Luckily for me, after eight months, two weeks, and two days, I called her, and she actually picked up the phone this time. We went back to the way things were, and I learned not to make that mistake again.”

The silence was deafening. Quinn knew she could turn on the radio to cover it up, that in five minutes she and Santana would start talking again, that it wouldn’t be forgotten but that they would both pretend that the words hadn’t been spoken. It was rule number 1 in the Fabray household: _If it’s not talked about, it goes away._

Quinn didn’t turn on the radio, though. She squeezed Santana’s hand. “Santana, you do know that I do though, right?”

“Sure, I do,” she said confidently. “But now you know why I won’t be the one to say it first?”

Quinn nodded. “So, what you’re saying is that you won’t say it until I say it first, even though I know that you do, and I won’t say it because I’m terrified of allowing myself to fall so far into you that I lose myself, even though I’m already gone?”

“That sounds about right,” Santana agreed. She smiled and seemed to accept without any bitterness that fact that there were these three words in both of their vocabularies that they didn’t seem to be able to say to each other. It was ridiculous because they both _knew_ the other loved them, but they were both paralyzed from saying it. It was so dysfunctional, but hey, that was them. How many times had they said stuff that was biting and had been aimed directly for the jugular, only to turn around and be back to being best friends the next day? It’s the way they’ve always been. But…(and this was the part of Quinn that still read Nicholas Sparks books no matter how paint-by-numbers the stories all were, and liked Twilight for the same reason) she didn’t want it to always be them.

That thought was against her programming. She was never raised to fall for the idea of romance, but that didn’t stop her from wanting it. To want the princess charming on the white horse, who was willing to fight to the death for her (without dying of course). Was Santana really her soul mate? Were they destined to spend the rest of their lives together? Despite Santana constantly saying that they were never going to divorce, were those words strong enough to mean it fifteen years down the road? Quinn didn’t know, but she didn’t need an answer to that right now, because right now she was married to the woman that she loved, and that was good enough for her.

“Lot of thinking going on over there, Fa-, damn it, I’m like Puck. I’m really going to have to figure out something to call you instead of Fabray since you went and changed your last name.”

“You could just call me Quinn, you know. There’s like this amazing thing called a first name. Well, second.”

“I could call you Lucy,” Santana said, and Quinn was surprised that Santana didn’t sound like she was joking or making fun of her. “I know you banished her to the seventh circle of hell when you bartered away your soul, but I just want you to remember, I was your friend when you were still Lucy. I liked her. I could talk to her about places I’d been to, and wanted to visit, and science and geography, and books that we read and that we both liked, and that was cool with her.”

“Yeah, because she practically worshiped the ground that you walked on,” Quinn all-but-mumbled.

“And see…she was _smart_. I’m willing to even go so far as to call her a genius!”

Quinn kind of sighed without meaning to. They passed by a sign that welcomed them into Framingham. “Do you ever wonder what we would have been if I hadn’t become Quinn? It I had stayed Lucy?”

“You did stay Lucy.” Santana informed her. “You’ve just been going by a nickname all this time.”

Santana pulled her car to a stop in front of a kind of not-ideal apartment complex. It was decent enough, the grounds kept up, but there was a kind of dinginess that hung around the place. Or maybe that was just the Quinn Fabray who had never been too very far from the country club. Santana gave her a sideways glance, as if she knew her thoughts, and offered a hand to her. “It’s the one on the end, on the top floor,” Santana directed. She hesitated for a second at the top of the stairs. “Hey Q?”

“Yea?”

“I probably should warn you-,”

A door opened just then, and a knee high mop of curly black hair came rushing out of the apartment, flinging itself at them, saying, “Mama! You’re here! I almost didn’t think that you were ever going to come back!”

And the only thoughts Quinn could think about as she took in the scene were the things it seemed that Santana had subtly been hinting at: that she and Quinn hadn’t talked for eight in a half, nearly nine months, that that had been more than five years ago, and that there was a four year old kid who looked very much like Santana, planting kisses all over her wife’s face. There was only one conclusion that her brain could come up with, and it almost felt like she was hit by a phantom wave of morning sickness just at the thought because damn it she was so not ready for this: Santana had a son.


	22. Bread Crumbs

Santana swung Phil up into her arms. “Hola, mjio! Se puede decir ‘hola’ a mi esposa?”

Phillip obeyed almost instantly. “Hello.” He stuck a hand out to Quinn. “I’m Phillip.”

Quinn couldn’t take her eyes off the kid. She was trying not to overreact, but if you were going to marry someone it’s just kind of common courtesy to let them know that you had a kid before you did so.

_Hey Quinn, marry me?_

_Why sure, Santana._

_Oh yeah, by the way I have a kid._

How hard was that? And forget that her wife had this secret child that she’d never known about, he was four freaking years old! That means that for five years Santana had this secret that she’d never told her about. Even if their activities had mostly centered on the bedroom, that’s what pillow talk was for. Quinn wondered if that’s where the $1,000 withdrawal had gone. She’d assumed that it was for the wedding, but now she wondered if it had gone to Santana’s _other_ family. No, correction, _she_ was the other family.

The Hulk!Quinn wanted to smash the information in Santana’s face, but the married Quinn wasn’t going to bring it up. Part of her didn’t want to because she felt that it was Santana’s money that she was spending, so she didn’t have any say in it. But now that they had joint accounts didn’t that mean that it was _their_ money, no matter who earned it, and if it was _theirs_ shouldn’t she know where it’s going to? The other part of her didn’t want to mention it because Santana had just been really awesome lately, and she didn’t want to risk things with them and incite another fight. Quinn attributed this calmer her to the Lopez part of her. The Fabray part of her wanted to regulate, because hello: kid!

Quinn’s emotions flickered back and forth between panic, anger, betrayal, and minor, little bitty emotions, too, but Quinn was born a Fabray, so she tucked them all behind her mask and smiled at the little boy in front of her as she shook his little hand.

“Hi, Phillip. I’m Quinn.”

“Are you my mama’s wife?” Quinn nodded, being very careful not to let her irritation show. So Santana had mentioned her to him, but hadn’t felt the need to mention him to her? Phil leaned over and placed a hand on Quinn’s shoulder. “You’re lucky, cause she’s a great protector.” He thought about something. “But can you let her out to play every now and then cause I really miss her?”

Santana bit down on her lip to keep from smiling. “Mijo!” she scolded half-heartedly.

Hazel appeared suddenly in the doorway. “Santana, thank God!”

Santana turned enough to look at Hazel. “I know my presence is always cause for celebration, but what’s that about?”

“I was worried that you weren’t going to come, and I wouldn’t be able to find someone last minute, and I’d have to call out of work, and I can’t-,” she heaved a sigh. “But you’re here.”

Santana frowned. “I’m almost offended that you didn’t think I’d show. When have I ever broken a promise to you?”

Quinn was going to start counting how many irritated ticks this whole situation was giving her. Count: 2. Hazel didn’t seemed to be too worried about Santana’s feelings. “Yeah, well, getting screwed over is the official mantra of the single mom. You should try it sometime then you’ll know what I mean.”

Any retort Santana was obviously itching to make was cut off completely by the simultaneous sounds of a child and wife who were present, and didn’t want to get lost in the moment. Santana reached for Quinn’s hand. “Sorry,” she apologized to Quinn, quickly brushing her lips over her cheek. She took her hand, and the four of them crossed over the threshold of Hazel’s apartment. “Hazel, this is my wife Quinn, Quinn, Hazel.”

“And I’m Phillip!” Phil offered again.

Santana started to tickle him. “You already said that, silly!”

He squealed and for a moment the only sound was their laughter.

Hazel turned to Quinn while they were occupied. “Nice to meet you,” she said somewhat stiffly, as if she didn’t know what to do with the woman in front of her. Quinn felt the same way. Hazel wasn’t anything of what Quinn was expecting. She was pretty, but not very attractive. Well…it wasn’t that she was unattractive, more that she was…just. She was just, just. She had a look that would easily fade into the crowd. Hair that was dirty blonde, more dirty than blonde, eyes that were brown, tired, and surrounded by bags, a waistline that was non-existent and had probably been a leftover gift from Phil’s birth. She seemed to be in her mid-thirties, and with one look at her you kind of got the feeling that you knew exactly what she was: a single mother who worked in a low wage job, lived in a bare minimum apartment, didn’t get much me time, probably didn’t have much education, and had even fewer choices. 

They shifted feet, made eye-contact and looked away, and eyed the two people in the room who didn’t seem to be having a difficult time. “Congratulations,” Hazel offered.

Quinn had to pull herself out of her thoughts. “I’m sorry, for what?”

Quinn realized what the congratulations were for a few seconds before Hazel said, “You’re newlyweds, right?”

She smiled, slightly embarrassed. “Oh, yeah. Right. Thank you! I keep forgetting that Santana and I are married.” She realized that her words were not without its irony; she could remember asking Santana on several occasions how it was that she kept seeming to forget that she was married to Quinn, and yet Quinn had just said the same words her wife often said. Quinn supposes that it’s easy to forget that you’re married, though, when your wife seems to know everything about you, but you know next to nothing about her.

Her eyes fell onto the spectacle that was said wife, with the boy that said wife claimed was merely her godson. Santana was currently on her back, being straddled by Phil, who was ineffectively digging his fingers into Santana’s sides. Santana was giggling a little too wildly for the noise to be anything other than play. Besides, Quinn knew all of Santana’s tickle spots and Phil wasn’t even close.

“Are those two always like that?”

Hazel nodded, casting a look that way. “Always. Santana’s his favorite toy.” She took a step back. “I’m sorry, have you two eaten? There’s eggs or cereal I could fix up.”

“We ate before we came over, but thank you for the offer.” Quinn said politely. Hazel nodded, shifting uncomfortable. Quinn could easily understand what Santana meant about Hazel being lonely; she could see it spelled out in every inch of the woman. Quinn wondered if this would have been her if she had kept Beth. Isolated from friends, working just slightly better than minimum wage, worried that any change in the routine that she set up in her life would mess up everything. Quinn blinked. Phil was much younger, and Hazel much older than her and her child, but still, this could have been her.

“How did you and Santana meet?” Quinn questioned. She had this desire to _know_ this woman, to know what their connecting was. She couldn’t imagine them being old lovers, because she couldn’t imagine Santana being with her. Phil, obviously, seemed to be what connected them, but that just confused her because how had that come to pass. Santana said that they hadn’t dated, (correction, she said that they hadn’t had sex), but then…what? Was this an open adoption? Didn’t you have to have money to adopt? Obviously Hazel didn’t have any, especially if she was relying on Santana to cover her expenses.

“I used to live in Boston,” Hazel responded. She started to play with her ear. Quinn wondered if it was a nervous tick. She sensed that she was lying. “We knew some of the same people.”

Both of their eyes seemed to fall onto Santana and Phil at the same time. Santana was now sitting up with Phil in her lap, and they were having a whispered conversation, with Santana doing most of the talking.

“What do you think she’s telling him?” Quinn wondered aloud.

“She’s probably coaching him on what _not_ to say around you,” Hazel replied so quickly that Quinn had trouble doubting it wasn’t true.

“Does she keep things from you, too?” Quinn questioned wryly.

Hazel head jerked, the movement something between a shake of the head and a nod. “She doesn’t have anything to keep from me.”

That statement rubbed Quinn all kinds of wrong. Tick count: 3. She wondered if Hazel meant to say that, at least in that way, and did that mean that Hazel was willing to share even more of Santana’s secrets.

“Is Phillip Santana’s son?” She really meant to finesse her way into that question. Instead it came shooting out as if Quinn had never played the manipulation came before and was a rookie at gathering information from someone.

Hazel briefly looked away. Quinn thought that it was because she wasn’t going to answer, or out of guilt, but her eyes followed Hazel’s to the clock and realized she was just checking the time. “It depends on who’s asking. Since you had to ask me that, though, I’m going to say the answer is no.”

“And why’s that?” It was more of a demand than a question, delivered with that same coolness Quinn used in high school, usually preceding a hard slap to the face. Quinn was unaware that her voice had taken on a life of her own, and somewhere down the road, maybe 20 years from now when she was the CEO of either her company, or one just like it, she was going to do some serious emotional scarring to the intern who was unfortunate enough to mess up her coffee order on his/her first day. 

Hazel notice the frostiness to Quinn’s voice, and recognized in the same second that it wasn’t meant for her, but for Santana, and she felt bad for her. “Because if she thought of him as her son, she would have told you about him.” Quinn tried to discern if this fact made Hazel upset. Interesting. “Santana has secrets, yes, and I can only imagine what it’s like in your position to not know them, but you are honestly the last person she would ever intentionally hurt. If she keeps things from you, it’s because for one reason or another, she can’t tell you them. I don’t know if this makes you feel any better, but I can tell you that Phil and I aren’t Santana’s secret family. Me and Santana have no romantic feelings towards each other, and never have. She helped me out of a corner, and she still helps me out. She’s…a good friend. If she’s keeping secrets, they’re not her secrets that she’s keeping, they’re mine.”

She looked back over at the clock. “Hey, I’ve got to go. Santana?”

Santana looked out of her Phil bubble. “I’m going to go in a few minutes early since you’re here. Is that okay?”

Santana grinned at Phil. “Yeah, I think we can manage.”

Hazel turned a blank gaze at Santana. “Please, please if you give him sugar, none after four o’clock because he won’t go down for the night if you do.”

“I got it.”

“I mean it, Santana.”

“I said, okay.”

Hazel looked Quinn over. “You’ll keep her honest, right?” she questioned.

Quinn gave Hazel her best reserved for parent’s and teacher’s smile. “I will.”

Hazel gave an unsure nod of her head. “Oh, and make sure he takes a nap.”

Phil protested immediately. “Mommy, do I have to? Naps are for babies!”

“No, naps are for adults,” she said to her son. “And I was talking to mama.”

“I got it, Hazel. I’ve watched him before.” Santana stood up, lifting Phil back into her arms. “He and your apartment will still be intact when you get home. What time will you be back?”

“Nine.”

“Can I wait up for you until you get home?” Phil questioned, hopefully.

Hazel looked at Santana. “That’s up to you, Santana.”

Phil looked at Santana, too. “Please, Mama?”

“We’ll see,” Santana replied.

Hazel picked up her keys from the counter. “Thank you,” she remembered to say. “Thank you for doing this, Santana.” Santana nodded. “Phil, you going to give mommy some love before she goes?”

Still in Santana’s arms, Phil leaned forward, and Hazel kissed him on the cheek. “Te quiero, mommy!” he said, before he pressed his lips to her cheek and blew on it, laughing at the noise it made.

Even though Santana had drawn back as far as possible, while still holding Phil in place to kiss his mom, the whole scene just felt so domestic that it was a struggle for Quinn not to feel like she was intruding upon it. Correction, that Hazel was intruding upon something. Tick count: 4. “Love you, too, baby boy. Be good for mama, okay?”

He nodded his head, sending his curls bouncing atop his head. “I will!”

Hazel was out the door, and at the stairs before she turned back. “Santana, I need you to come down to get his chair.”

Santana looked from Quinn to Hazel to Phil. She sat the boy down. “Okay.” She gave Quinn a quick kiss. “Be right back, babe. You two play nice.”

Phil watched after Santana until the door closed, and then he turned to look at Quinn. Quinn looked back, not knowing what to say to this tiny person. She never knew what to do around children, and she wasn’t quite sure what to make of him. If she was ever wondering what kind of kid Santana would make, though, she had her answer because Phil was it in a nutshell. Phil was a little Santana (with better manners than little Santana had, she was sure), but still her nonetheless. The two even looked alike. More alike than Hazel and Phil, if she was being honest with herself.

She was aware that this was a prime time to start pumping him for answers, but facing him she didn’t know what to say. So she stared, trying not to notice that he looked like her wife, and that if he followed her form, he was going to grow up to be a real heartbreaker.

“Umm…,” Quinn cleared her throat. Phil continued to stare. “So how old are you?”

Phil used his left hand to help him hold up the right amount of fingers. “I’m four, but I’m going to be five on September 14th. How old are you?”

Quinn blushed. “That’s…,” she stopped herself from telling the four year old that it was none of his business. “29. But I’ll be 30 in six months.”

“Wow!” Phil said. “That’s a lot of years old.” She frowned. Phil didn’t notice. “When I’m 30, I’m going to be an astronaut like Buzz Aldrin. He’s my favorite.”

“Because he walked on the moon?”

“No, because Buzz Lightyear was modeled after him, and Buzz is cool!” Oh, of course. “One day, maybe when I’m 6, I’m going to go to Disney World, because mama says that’s where he lives, and I’m going to meet him, and shake his hand, and tell him that someday I’m going to be an astronaut, just like him.”

“An astronaut is a really tough thing to be.”

Phil gave a solemn nod. “I know. Mama read to me all of the things that you have to do in order to become an astronaut. You have to be physically fit, and smart, and speak lots of languages, like mama does. I’m going to go to the air force just like Daddy Puck,” Quinn’s brow furrowed, “so I can get really strong, and become a pilot. And, mama told me that if I do good in school, when I’m 10, she’s going to send me to Huntsville, that’s in Alabama, so I can go to Space Camp!”

“You know Puck?” Tick count: 5.

Phil’s face lit up in wonder. “You know him, too?”

“I went to high school with him.” And had a kid with him. She was kind of furious that the man she had a baby with, didn’t tell her that their baby had a half-sibling.

“Really? Do you sing and play the guitar like he does?”

“I sing.”

“Mama sings too! Will you sing me something?”

“Maybe later. How do you know Puck?”

“He’s mama’s friend.”

“So why do you call him ‘daddy Puck’?”

Phil shrugged, looking confused. “Cause that’s his name,” he said, simply.

“Why do you call Santana your mama?”

He gave her the same look. “Cause she’s my mama. What else would I call her?”

“How long has she been your mama?”

Phil gave a smile at Quinn, as if she had been trying to trick him, and he just caught on. “For always.”

“Do you get to see daddy Puck often?”

Phil gave a solemn shake of his head. “No, but I talk to him, and he sends me cards for my birthday, and for the first night of Chanukah.”

Quinn shook her head, because she couldn’t deny the fact that it really was her Puck that she was talking about. It seemed like with every passing day she was just traveling further and further down Santana’s rabbit hole, _but_ , she thought dryly, _if Santana really had coached Phil on what not to say to Quinn, she hadn’t done a very good job_.

Quinn realized that it’d been a couple of minutes since Santana left at around the same time that the door swung open again. Santana made a deal of surveying the living room as she stood in the doorway of the apartment, looking around deviously, as she shut the door. She rubbed her hands together. “Well now that she fell for my trap and I got rid of her, I can go through with my plan of cooking you for breakfast!”

Santana opened her mouth wide. Phil squealed, rushing to get away from her arms. “Ma-ma!” he shrieked, “Don’t eat me!”

Santana looked incredibly upset. “But I’m empty and need to be Phil-eed up.”

Quinn had to turn her head away from them because Santana was many, many things, but corny was one she was not prepared for.

“You can’t eat me!” Phil pleaded. “I wouldn’t taste good at all.”

“No?”

Big shake his curly head. “No.”

“But you eat lots of things that taste really good. Pizza, chicken nuggets, candy! That must mean you taste good too!”

“No, I taste like liver and unions.”

“I _love_ liver and onions.”

He shrieked. “Please, don’t eat me!”

“Well then what should I do with you?”

Phil put a finger to his lip and looked as if he was giving it some extreme consideration.

“Can we read?”

“Read? But reading is so lame!”

“No, it’s not. It’s cool!”

“Who told you _that_?”

“You did! Did you bring me a new book?”

She thought about it. “I might have. If I did we can read together after lunch, and before you go down for you nap. Deal?”

“Do I really have ta take a nap?”

“Don’t you always take a nap?”

He scrunched up his face. “Not always,” he answered. Santana fixed him with a look that he squirmed beneath. Quinn didn’t blame him; grown men and women squirmed beneath that look. “Well, sometimes I don’t,” he pouted, “which means not _always_.”

“Won’t mommy be mad if you don’t take a nap?”

It was his turn to fix Santana with a look, but not the glowering glare that Santana had perfected in high school, but another look that Quinn had seen all too often on her wife’s face. He widened his eyes, looking up at Santana through his lashes and gave her a winsome pout-smile. “Only if we _tell_ her. We can just _say_ I did, and it can be our secret.”

Quinn had to cover her mouth to hide her snicker, but to her surprise, instead of being won over by that combination, Santana gave him a very stern look. “Are you supposed to keep secrets from mommy?”

Phil seemed to realize that he said something wrong. His winsome smile melted off of his face. “No,” he mumbled.

“Are you supposed to keep secrets from me?”

He shook his head, practically wilting in front of them. Quinn wouldn’t say so in front of the kid, but she didn’t really think it was fair for Santana to demand honesty from Phil when she appeared to keep secrets from everybody. Except, well, Puck. She wondered if Brittany knew about this kid, too. This kid who Quinn was having trouble believing was just Santana’s godson.

“I didn’t hear you answer me, Phillip.”

“No,” he said, audibly this time. He looked close to tears. “Are you mad at me, mama?” Phil whispered, and Quinn wondered if she had missed something that had transpired between the two of them.

Santana kneeled in front of him. “No, Phil, but you don’t keep anything from me or mommy, and you don’t lie. That’s not how superheroes behave. Superman’s mom never had to remind Superman to take a nap when he was four.”

“Superman was once little like me?”

Santana nodded. “But he always ate his vegetables, drank milk, never lied, took naps when he was supposed to, and obeyed his parents. So then he grew up big and strong. And you want to be like superman, right?” He nodded. “So, no lying. Now let’s go get dressed, so we can go out, okay?”

“Okay!” Phil said agreeably. Quinn caught Santana by the arm as Phil went rushing to his bedroom.

“You know that’s not going to work for very long, right?”

Santana gave Quinn a wink and a kiss on the cheek. “But right now it does.” For good measure, she was sure to add an extra sway to her hips as she walked out of the room.

* * *

Santana left Quinn and Phil and followed Hazel down the stairs to Hazel’s car, a 2015 Camry. “How’s she running?” Santana questioned with concern.

Hazel pulled out a pack of cigarettes. She selected one and lit it before offering the pack to Santana. “No thanks,” Santana said.

Hazel shrugged. “I forget, you only smoke cigars right?” She tossed the cigarette pack onto the seat. “With luck, she’ll last me another five years. God knows what I’m going to do if she breaks on me.”

Santana watched the smoke rise from the cigarette. She waved the smoke away from her face. “You don’t know smoke that around him, do you?”

“No, mother,” Hazel snapped.

“It was just a question.”

“I know how to parent my son.”

“I just asked.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t get why you’re asking. You don’t want to be a mother, so why are you so interested in mothering my kid? I’m a _single_ mom. As in I don’t have to answer to anyone. Even you.”

“I-I care because second hand smoke stunts growth, and because I care about him, and you, and-,”

“You just can’t help yourself,” Hazel finished for her. “You’re just being a concerned mama, looking out for the son that you don’t have, right?”

“Please can we not do this?”

“You didn’t tell your wife about him!”

“Yes, I did.”

“Then why was she asking if Phil was your son, cause she sure seems surprised by you, too.”

“I never told him to call me mama.”

“And you never stopped him, either. I know he’s not your kid. I get that. But since he’s not your kid, stop getting on to me about how I raise _my_ son, okay? Stop making decisions for us as if he was your son. You might not have told him to call you mama, but he does, and you let him, so either get him to stop, or you live with that!”

“Is this because you’re jealous of Quinn? Is that what this is about? Are you upset that I got married?”

Hazel scowled. “You are so egotistical, you know that?”

“I’m just trying to figure out why you keep attacking me, Hazel! What do you want me to do? Not to come around anymore? You called me up! You asked me to come over today, and then you bite my head off over it!”

Again Santana wondered why she was having this kind of fight with someone who wasn’t her wife. She got into enough fights with her wife, she didn’t extra just for practice.

“Because I’m fucking frustrated, Santana! You, this, us, it is driving me fucking crazy! I’m doing this on my own. I’m making all the decisions, I’m doing all the night-nights and feel better hugs. In a few months I’m going to be doing all the driving him to school, and all the picking him up. All the PTA meetings. You don’t get it. Yes, you show up, sometimes, and yes you play with him, and read to him, and teach him to speak different languages, and promise him things, and no, you don’t break those promises, but you get to decide. You get to decide and I don’t. You don’t understand how frustrating that is. You get to decide when you do those things. You get to decide when you see him, when you put him down to bed. You get to play mom when it’s convenient for you, and when it’s not you get to live your child free life!”

“That’s what you wanted, remember!”

“Because you were 22, in college, and you and Quinn were dancing around each other. That’s exactly who I’d want to help co-parent a kid, because that just sounds like the kind of security I needed when I’m about to bring a new life into the world! So forgive me for not wanting to be yours, or anyone else’s obligation; I thought I could handle it on my own. But you acted butt hurt, so I left the door open for you. I let you choose what you wanted to be with him, because you seemed to want to be in his life.”

“I do want to be in his life-”

“You didn’t even tell your wife about him! You know what that says to me? That you don’t want him to be your son. So maybe I am picking fights with you over him, because I don’t know what we’re doing anymore!”

Santana sighed, heavily. She didn’t really, either, but she didn’t want to have to deal with it in this moment either. She understood that it was a dick move, but she didn’t know what to do in this situation, and not making a decision was a lot easier than making one.

“Help me with his seat, will you?” Santana questioned.

To her credit, Hazel did not sigh, and she didn’t look she was going to throw something at Santana either. She undid the seat from the back of her car, and showed Santana the proper way to put the seat on, to make sure all the straps were done right. “He knows how to buckle himself,” Hazel said. “So all you have to do is put him in the car.” She slid the child lock into place as an afterthought. “Did you have anything planned?”

“Noah, got him a glove so I thought I’d take him to the park, or something.”

“That’s nice. He’ll like that. Lord knows I can’t teach him how to throw. There’s a street festival downtown, too, that you might want to check out.”

“I’ll look into it. Quinn would probably enjoy that. I was going to take him to get some pajamas today. Is there anything else that he needs?”

Hazel sighed. “Socks and underwear.”

“Okay. Do you want me to let him stay up to wait up for you to come home? Or would you rather he be asleep?”

“To be honest, sleep.”

Santana gave a nod. “Okay. Give me some time to think about it?”

Hazel barked out a laugh. “Sure! I’ve been giving you three years, what’s a couple of weeks?”

Santana fought to keep her emotions in check. To remember that Hazel wasn’t Quinn, and that even a raised voice was combative. “Hazel, I don’t think you understand the position I’m in. You can take him from me at any time. You can decide at any point, whether or not I get to say he’s mine. I don’t _have_ a claim on him, no matter what.”

“Santana, I don’t think _you_ get the positon that _you’re_ in. The only way I could do that, is if you let me. For all intents and purpose, he’s your son, you’re just letting me raise him. I know that that was the arrangement, that that’s always been the arrangement, but it was different when we didn’t live near each other. We do, now. I’m sorry I got so lonely that I wanted to be close to the place that has felt like home to me. But I’m here, and it’s obvious you want to be his mom, but you won’t commit to it. That’s not fair to _me_. To him. Either you’re his co-parent or you’re not.”

“Just…give me some time, okay?” It wasn’t a decision Santana could just make on the spot. It wasn’t a decision she felt she had a right to make without Quinn getting a say in the whole thing. “I’m going to Arizona at the end of the month. I’ll be there for two or three weeks. I can take him with me so you can have some time to yourself.”

“School starts the Monday after Labor Day.”

“Oh,” Santana remarked, because that he was actually old enough to start school hadn’t even entered her thoughts, despite that she and Hazel had been talking about it just a few minutes ago. Santana kept forgetting that he was getting older. She couldn’t believe he was old enough to actually be starting school. “I’ll have an answer for you when I get back, okay?”

Hazel gave a reluctant nod. “Okay.”

“Have a good day at work.”

“Thanks. You too. You…know what I mean.”

Hazel got in her car and backed out of the space. Santana watched her leave. Hazel was so hot and cold, but she was also right. Santana could walk away at any point. She did get to decide how and when she saw Phil, when she was in his life, and when she wasn’t. Hazel didn’t get that same choice. She was always mom. Santana wasn’t. Santana understood that Hazel wasn’t saying that she couldn’t come see Phil anymore, just that she needed to make a choice on who she was going to be to him. If she was just his playmate, fine, but if she was something more, she needed to be that more consistently. Santana understood what Hazel was demanding. She just couldn’t commit to it either way.

Phillip wasn’t her son. Legally, she had a claim to him, but in the laws that mattered to her, she didn’t. He was Hazel’s son, and she would never interfere with the fact that he was Hazel’s son, as much for Hazel’s sanity as anything else. But she and Hazel weren’t together, had never been together. Hazel could leave, would leave at some point, and she would take him with her when she went, and if Santana actually fully committed to being a parent, and she did that…it’d break her.

She looked at Phil’s car seat sitting in the back of her car. Not that it wouldn’t now, but not the way it would if she was _mom_. If she put a picture of him on his desk, and took him to little league, and spent time on the phone with her friends telling them every little new thing he learned at school. Right now, other than Noah, no one in her life knew about him. She didn’t have pictures of him on her desk. She didn’t let herself think of him as her _son._

What she needed to do was cut her ties, count her loses, and just look forward to starting a family with Quinn in a couple of years, which is all she ever really wanted to do. Quinn became an added complication to the equation, too, because she hadn’t signed on for this. Hell, Santana hadn’t signed on for this, not intentionally. She just sometimes did things that she didn’t fully think through and completely weigh the consequences before she did them.

She looked up to the apartment where Phil and Quinn were alone, and her wife was, no doubt, trying to worm as many questions out of the unsuspecting little boy as possible. She had told him earlier that he could answer any questions that she asked, and the more she asked, the less she’d have to actually explain. Santana knew about Quinn searching the apartment, but knew, too, that she hadn’t found anything worth knowing because if she had she would have already confronted her about it.

Santana wished that Hazel had left her a cigarette behind. She was waiting for things to get to the part where they were _easy_. She honestly had never anticipated everything getting this complicated.

“Oh well,” she mumbled. She gave a glance in her side view mirrors to make sure her outside façade didn’t reflect her inside turmoil, and she jogged back up the stairs, steeling herself for what she was about to walk into.

* * *

Santana watched Phil get dressed, and worried that he needed new clothes as well. She would hold off on that, though, because he’d need new clothes for the start of the school year.

“What’cha think about?” Phil questioned. He had gotten right in front of Santana’s face and she hadn’t even noticed.

“You,” Santana said honestly.

“About how handsome I am?”

Santana gave a chucking laugh. “Yep, that’s it exactly. Do you need to use the bathroom before we go?”

He thought about it. “Nope.”

“Go use it anyway, and I’ll be waiting by the door.”

“Okay.”

Santana walked out into the living room. She surprised Quinn by wrapping her hands around her waist. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Quinn said back.

“Hazel says there’s a street festival going on in town. Do you think that’d be something that you’d want to do?”

Quinn shrugged. “We can. What’d you want to tell me before we got inside.”

Santana kissed the back of her neck. “Just that Phil can be a little excitable.”

“I see that,” Quinn said wryly. Phil emerged from the bathroom. Santana pulled back, but she grabbed Quinn’s hand. “Ready?”

“Yep!”

In the car, Santana watched Phil slide into his booster seat, and pull the seat belt around the seat. “All good?” she questioned. Phil gave the strap a little pull. “Yep!”

She checked him before getting into the driver’s seat. She gave Quinn a kiss. “Thanks,” she said, as she pulled back away from her. Quinn tilted her head, looking at Santana curiously, her eyes at that midpoint between gold and green. “For?”

“Being my wife, always, but more specifically, helping me baby sit.”

Quinn pulled her in for a better kiss, only stopping when Phil said, “Mama, that’s gross!”

“I never tell you it’s gross when you _drool_ on me.”

“I don’t drool!” he squealed.

His eyes fell on the blue decorative bag that was stashed on the floor behind Quinn’s seat. “What’s that?”

Santana pretended not to know what he was talking about. “What’s what?”

He pointed, excitedly. “That!”

Santana lifted the bag. “Oh this? I don’t know. I think it might be for you.”

Phil eagerly reached for the bag. “Ooh, ooh what is it? Did you bring me a new book?”

“Open it and find out, you goof!”

Phil searched through the wrapping paper, pulling out the glove and ball. “My own glove?” he seemed too awed to be gleeful. “Wow!”

“It’s not from me; it’s an early birthday gift from Daddy Puck.”

“Can we play with it right now? Will you teach me how to throw?”

“We can play with it later. We have some shopping to do first.”

Phil pouted. “I don’t like to shop.”

“Well, then, it’s a good thing that doing what you don’t like won’t kill you, huh?”

“And he’s down,” Santana said cheerfully, plopping down onto the space beside Quinn, startling her from her book. She raised her hand for a high-five. Quinn looked at the hand, but didn’t give her one, so Santana picked up Quinn’s hand, and high-fived herself.

“You were in there for a while,” Quinn noted. “Are you sure he didn’t put up a fight?”

“Nah, he doesn’t usually put up a fight for me. Three books, and he was out in fifteen. Easy.” Santana shrugged. “I just like watching him sleep.”

“I liked watching Beth, too.” Quinn responded. “Parent’s like watching their kids sleep; it’s kind of a thing.” Quinn didn’t even hesitate. “Why didn’t you tell me you had a son?”

“He’s my godson.”

“Santana,” Quinn said leadingly. She waited until Santana lifted her head and looked at her. “That’s your kid. You have a son, and you didn’t even tell me.”

She gave a glance over her shoulder. “Because I don’t think about him as being mine,” she said in a low voice. “If I did, I would have. I don’t get to have a claim on him, though, so I don’t.”

“You don’t think you have a claim on him?” Quinn rolled her eyes. “He calls you mama.”

“Because I didn’t want him calling me Santana. It’s weird for me to hear a kid call me by my first name; I didn’t do that as a kid growing up. All of the women in my life were aunt or tia and the men were uncle or tio, no matter their actually relationship with me. I was Tia Tana, and we told him I was his god mom and he mixed tia and mom together. We just never corrected him.”

“As plausible as that may be, when you’re around him, you two act like a mother and son would, not like a woman with her friend’s kid who mistakenly calls you by the wrong name.”

“Would you believe that it’s because I don’t realize that I’m doing it?” Santana questioned. It was an earnest question, Quinn could see that. “I pretty much had this same conversation with Hazel a few hours ago. She essentially told me that I act like a parent, without being a parent, and how it’s not fair to her.”

“It’s not fair to anybody, including me. What is your actual relationship to him, Santana?”

Santana shifted on the couch, toying with the remote. “Around the time that he was born, Hazel really needed me. Like she pretty much couldn’t function independently. Even though she’s older than me, I always kind of thought of her as being like a younger sister. So I still treat her that way, and step in when I’m not needed. It’s not on purpose, it’s instinctual.”

“Santana, I want this relationship to work just as much as you do, but every day that passes I feel like you apparently know everything there is to know about me, but I don’t know anything about you. I don’t know you. I don’t know my wife. I get one mystery semi-solved, and then you turn around and add another to the equation.”

“And I’ve been doing my best to answer the unknowns about me. If I wanted to keep Phil a secret, would I have brought you here with me, today? I’ve been working all kinds of crazy shifts at work lately; I could have just lied and said that I had to work again today. But I didn’t. I bought groceries for Hazel, and took money out of our account to help her with her expenses. If it was something I was keeping from you, I wouldn’t have taken money from the account we both have access to, knowing that you get an alert if any large deposit or withdrawal is made. Take into consideration how sneaky you know me to be, would I have been tossing bread crumbs if I was really trying to keep things a secret from you?”

“Why can’t you just tell me things instead of playing Sherlock Holmes? Normal people talk to their spouses.”

“You’re accusing me of playing Sherlock Holmes when you and Mercedes went tearing through the apartment looking for clues alluding to my supposed secret identity?”

“So, what you have cameras around the apartment now?”

Santana laughed inappropriately. “What? Quinn. No.”

“How do you know Mercedes was with me?”

“Because _Brown Sugar_? When would you watch that without coercion?”

“Hey, that was a really, really good movie.”

Santana nodded. “I agree. Yet, I doubt you would have discovered that on your own.”

“Well, if you would just tell me things, I wouldn’t have to go to such extremes.”

“One, I’m not used to talking about things with people who don’t already know about the details of my life. I’m not used to coming home to someone who wants to know about my day. I’m getting used to. And the things I can tell you, I do, if I remember it’s something that I should tell you. Other wise the only way I know to tell you something is if you ask. Also, the lock on the lockbox where I keep my gun, is fingerprint activated, so you can’t open it. I got it when I lived alone. If you get a gun permit, and want access to the gun, I’ll get a different lock box. My safe in the top shelf of the closet, the one you haven’t discovered yet, is a combination lock, and it uses the same combination that any other combination lock that I have uses. Pretty much, if it’s anything that’s low to mid-level security, I use the same password and/or number combination.”

“Which is?” Quinn asked, just to see if Santana would answer her, or if it was just another one of those things Santana would answer only if she half-stumbled upon it.

“I already gave it to you. In fact it’s framed. It’s the same numbers I use for Powerball: 02-09-15-55-13.” Santana frowned. “Damn it, I forgot to get a ticket last night.”

“You do realize that the odds of you winning the lotto are like slim to nil, right?”

“If I _don’t_ get a ticket. If I get a ticket it’s slightly higher.”  
“You should read George’s Orwell’s take on the lottery.”

“I _know_ George Orwell’s take on the lottery. But I buy only two tickets a week, so even if I play the lottery from now until I die at the respectable age of 90, that is only $6000…and I’m just going to round up to 300. That’s only $6,300 dollars over the course of the rest of life. I’ll spend more money on staples. And actually, it’s almost the exact same amount that I’d spend on my Netflix subscription, if they don’t raise the price, which we know they will because 7.99 will be the cost of a roll of toilet paper in 10 years.”

Santana let the smile fade from her face. “I’m not making light of this. Trust, honesty, that’s an issue for us. For both of us. You don’t trust that I’m not going to screw you over in some way or the other, and I don’t trust that you won’t hurt me in the worst way you possibly can if somehow your feelings get hurt. That’s not good. That’s not healthy. That’s why I want to work on us, but it’s going to take some time.”

“We’re talking about a son, Santana! That’s not something that takes time. That’s a five year secret that you kept from me. Is he biologically yours? He looks like you.”

“Don’t you think you would have noticed if I was pregnant?”

“We didn’t talk for nearly nine months, remember?”

“Starting in April. Phillip was born in September.”

“You don’t start showing for the first two to three months. For some women it’s four or even five.”

“You’re being ridiculous!”

“I’m not being ridiculous, you have a fucking son!”

“How many times do I have to say that…”

“It doesn’t matter how many times you say it, it’s bullshit Santana! I don’t even know if I can trust you anymore!”

“Really? You’re talking about trust. You were going to go home with not one, but two different women, on the same night, and you’re talking to me about trust. It’s not even like you had a crisis of conscious, either. The opportunity just disappeared.”

“I thought you said that was over,” Quinn jeered.

“I said that it wasn’t okay, and it’s not. My point is that we both have our secrets. We’re both hurt each other-,”

Phil’s voice came suddenly from the hallway. “Mama?”

Santana jumped up almost instantly. “What is it, baby?”

“I had a bad dream.”

Santana picked him up and carried back into his room, snuggling with him until he fell back asleep.


	23. Puck, Santana, and Baby Makes 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to clean this chapter and the next chapter up. I know a couple of people stated that it was a little bit hard to read so Italics is a flashback and regular script is the present. This scene flickers back and forth between Santana in (AU) 2016 and Santana currently.

Time is relative. 9 months' time in the life of a mother who is anxiously awaiting the chance to welcome her first child into the world isn't the same 9 months that passes for someone who is anticipating the start of a prison sentence. 10 minutes in bed with your favorite person, doesn't last nearly as long as it does when you're 16 years old, and you just peed on a pregnancy stick, and you're wondering what the outcome will be. A 10 year old who grows up in a sheltered life, safe, happy, and whole, isn't halfway as old as a 10 year old who didn't, and the first 18 years of your life seem to take so much longer to get through than the next 40 years of your life will.

So a 30 minute car ride, spent almost entirely in silence, sitting next to a person that you've known for nearly two decades, and yet you feel like you don't actually know anything about, can last a life time. Several times, words seemed just at the tip of Santana's tongue, but she stopped shy of saying them, and beside her, she could feel Quinn going through the same conflict. Distance, too, seemed to be relative, because they had lived in different cities off and on for the past six or so years, but never had there been so much distance between them.

* * *

_Boston, March 03, 2016_

_“Puck!” Santana yelled loud enough that several people paused in their stride to turn to look at the noisy girl in the ridiculously short shorts, and overlong top, and then looked back again because, well, damn! Santana didn't care because she'd caught Puck's attention, and he was barreling towards her. Puck scooped her up in his arms, and planted a kiss smack on the lips. “God, I missed you!”_

_“I miss you, too.” Santana punched him in the arm for no real reason. “Asshole!”_

_Puck rubbed his arm. “What was that for?”_

_Santana shrugged, “It's to keep you honest.”_

_“The last thing that I plan on being this weekend is honest.” Puck said, draping a hand over her shoulders. “I have seen things, Lopez, and once you have seen things, you can't unsee them. So, I'm going to get drunk and high, and this better not be a lesbian retreat weekend cause I'm going to need a little ass, so if it is I might bed with a prostitute too.”_

_Santana threw her head back and laughed. “Don't worry, Noah. If you can't get anyone to sleep with you this weekend, I will.”_

_“I'm going to hold you to that,” Puck warned._

_It took no time to find Puck's bag because he was traveling with his military duffel, and the oversized camo bag was easy to spot. “Really?”_

_“What?” Puck demanded._

_“You're so government issue.”_

_“Don't diss my Uncle Sam; especially since he's paying your way through college.”_

_“Hey, don't go spreading that around!” Santana said, looking around as if anyone at all cared about their conversation._

_Puck laughed, bumping his hip into hers. “Get over yourself, Lopez. That or get under me.”_

“I'm sorry,” Quinn finally broke the silence just as Santana was pulling to a stop outside of the apartment. Santana gave her wife a curious look, thankful for the shadows that the nighttime gave her face.

“Why are _you_ apologizing?”

Quinn brought her hands up, perplexed and dropped them. “I don't know, but there has to be a reason that we keep ending up here, right? I wanted to be the first to apologize this time.”

“It's my fuck up, though,” Santana said. She gave a glancing look at the street pressing in on them. It was late, and Santana wanted the semi-comfort of being surrounded by an environment that wasn't so hostile. “Can we take this upstairs?”

_Puck and Santana were leaving JFK, and had just hit the 678 when Santana's phone started buzzing in its stand between the two of them. “It's Britts,” Puck informed her so she wouldn't have to look down. Santana pushed the media button in the center of her steering wheel._

_“Hey bitch!”_

_“Tana!”_

_“What's up, duck?”_

_“Are you on your way? Tell me you're on your way! I'm soo excited about seeing you guys!”_

_“We're on our way. I just picked Puck up from JFK and we're heading toward you now.”_

_“Hey Brittany,” Noah chimed in._

_“Puck, Puck, Puck!”_

_“Are you ready, Britts, cause we is so about to get our party on!”_

_“Woot woot! Lord Tubbington got one of his drug dealer friends to hook us up for the weekend so it's going to be magical. He even got us fairy dust.”_

_Puck and Santana looked at each other._

_“Do you mean Angel dust?”_

_Brittany sounded confused for a moment. “Wait, isn't that the same thing? Or is angel dust better because angel's live in heaven, which is further up than where fairies live, so angel dust gets you higher, right?”_

_Santana shot an unnecessary look that said 'under no circumstances do you let her touch that, shit', but Puck was already on the same page._

_“Britt-,”_

_“Duh, it's just weed. Just get your asses here already! I'm looking forward to getting my sweet lady kisses on.”_

_“Can I get some of those, too,” Puck leered over Santana's, “Britt, you know I can't.”_

_Puck gave Santana a 'why's that' sideways look that Santana could read even while she was driving, and Brittany could read even over the phone._

_“I'm trying to cut back on extracurricular activities,” Santana explained to Puck, Brittany, and maybe God, too, perhaps._

_“Well, boo you,” Brittany said._

_“I'm completely unattached, Britt,” Puck offered. The phone started to ring, again. “Hey, speak of the devil!”_

_“What?”_

_Puck showed her the phone. “Oh, wait that's Quinn! Hold on, Britt!”_

_Beside her Puck looked frantic. “Oh my gosh, it's Quinn!” He bounced excitedly on the seat, and fluffed his hair. “How's my hair look?”_

_Santana pushed Puck away. “Fuck you, Puck.” Santana switched the calls. “Hey, babe!”_

_“I told you not to call me ‘babe’.”_

_“Yea, but I know it annoys you, and otherwise we'd be getting along, and who wants that?” Santana could hear Quinn practically grinding her teeth on the other side of the line; it was a sound she lived to hear. “What's up?”_

_“Are we doing your place or mine this weekend?”_

_It made Santana smile that Quinn was the one to make the call this week, and frown because she wasn't going to get to see her. “I thought you had that big test coming up that you had to study for.”_

_“I took it early so I could see you over the weekend. I'm free, so you can help me study…_ other _things.”_

_Santana responded to the drop in Quinn's voice. “Other things?” she questioned._

_“Yes, like fashion retail. I got this new, silk bra and thong panty set, and I want to know what you think.”_

_“Baby…” she whined appreciatively. It went without saying that Quinn had bought the items for her; the only one who got a taste of Quinn's freak side was Santana. When Puck had confessed that Quinn was very vanilla in bed, it had taken every ounce of her restraint to not let a smile curl up on her lips at the fact that Santana got a part of Quinn that no one else seemed to even get a glimpse of._

_“It's see through,” Quinn went on, and Santana just imagined seeing Quinn in front of her, her small little triangle poking out beneath the small little triangle of the lingerie, amused, as she always was that whenever Quinn wasn't clean shaven the curtains didn't match the drapes._

_“Yeah?”_

_“Yeah.”_

_Santana licked her lips. “Are you wearing it now?”_

_“No,” Quinn said disappointingly. The feeling was short lived. “I'm not wearing anything.”_

_Luckily, there was no one immediately in the next lane for Santana to hit when she swerved. “Lopez!” Noah hissed. Santana forgot he was in the car. Santana forgot she was in the car._

_“Nothing?” she had to clarify._

_“Nope. I just got back from the gym; about to take a shower.”_

_“You called me naked?”_

_“I was thinking about you.”_

_The thought of Quinn on the phone, naked, was almost enough to cause her to salivate. Santana was like Pavlov's dogs, and Quinn's body was like the ringing bell. She swallowed. “What were you thinking about?”_

_Puck had gotten an idea of the kind of conversation Santana and Quinn were having, and as much fun as it was watching Santana squirm in her seat, he liked living more, so he made sure to keep an eye on the road, and his hand ready to grab the wheel if the need arose. His ears, those he kept trained on Santana. “Being pinned against the wall. You peeling my clothes off with your teeth; licking the sweat from my body.”_

_Vanilla indeed. “God…Quinn…”_

_“I'm so wet right now. Where are you?” Quinn whispered in her throaty, smoky, voice. Quinn's question made Santana remember, and her eyes refocused on the world around her, which included Puck, and she was pretty sure a boner. “I'm in the car.”_

_“Hi, baby mama!” Noah said cheerfully._

_Quinn's voice changed instantly. “Is that Noah?” she demanded, angrily, probably embarrassed by what Puck had been able to overhear._

_“Yeah,” Santana said regretfully. “He came up for the weekend.”_

_“Why?” There was disappointment spelled all over Quinn's voice, but she quickly tried to cover it up._

_Santana looked over at Puck. “Cause he's my boy, and he was able to get leave.”_

_“So, you're spending the whole weekend with him?”_

_“Yeah.”_

_There was a pause from Quinn. “But I want you, Santana.”_

_Well, damn if that didn't get her wetter than she's ever been. Quinn had never uttered those words before. “Baby,” she moaned. “I'll make it up to you double next weekend.”_

_“Can't you pawn him off on Rachel and Kurt for a couple of hours?”_

_“I wish, babe, but we're spending the weekend in Boston.”_

_“Oh,” the disappointment was less candid, and possession wrapped all over that simple utterance._

_“Yeah, we're going to party hardy in Bean Town with Brit,” Puck shouted._

_“Sounds_ fun _,” Quinn responded, her voice that blank tone that meant that she was intensely displeased, but had her face just as blank as her voice._

_“I'm sorry, Quinn, I thought you were going to be studying.” Santana wondered why she was pleading for understanding since they weren't dating, and Quinn was still fond of saying that she wasn't queer. You know, despite the whole sleeping with a woman thing._

_“Whatever,” she dismissed, “It doesn't matter. Enjoy your weekend with Puck.”_

_“Quinn!”_

_The call was disconnected._

* * *

They got out of the car, and went up to their apartment. Santana opened the door for Quinn, letting her go through first. Quinn sat down on the sofa, but Santana remained standing, each essentially in their own corners. Santana looked at Quinn, and saw a lost child that never gave up her old insecurities. Quinn looked at Santana and saw an island that was surrounded by a barrier reef that would sink any ship that would get close enough to discover her secrets. It occurred to Santana that they had been doing this for far too long: retreating. They were so used to doing this, so conditioned to not be the one who caved in front of the other, that they had pushed their feelings aside. They had been doing this for so long that they didn't know how to just be.

* * *

_Puck rolled his eyes. “You and that girl,” he said with a chuckle. “Why do you torture yourself?”_

_Santana chewed on her lip. “Every now and then it's worth it,” she said with a twisted smile._

_Puck pushed her._ _”Yeah, sounds like it,” he said with an eye roll. “Never thought I'd see the day when Santana was begging for pussy.”_

_“Please, I wasn't begging for shit!”_

_“You were so about to cream your pants over there. What the hell did she say to you to get you squirming over there? I didn't even know that Quinn could do dirty talk.”_

_Santana stopped herself from letting her friend know that there was a lot of stuff that Quinn would do that would surprise him: how much she cussed, how amenable she was to letting Santana strap on and pretty much nail her on every surface that existed, how many different ways Quinn would scream her name when she came, how she enjoyed helping Santana study, even though Santana didn't need any help._

_“Looks like you enjoyed our conversation a little too much,” Santana said instead, motioning down at Puck's crotch._

_Puck followed her gaze. “What do you expect when you and my baby's mama are having phone sex like a foot away from me?”_

_“We hadn't got there yet, you fucking cock blocker.”_

_Puck rolled his eyes. “ S'not like you're not going to get it from Brittany in a few hours, so I don't know why you're complaining.”_

_“You heard what I said to Britt.”_

_Puck gave a not entirely friendly laugh. “You're choking yourself over_ Quinn _? Shit, San, I thought you were smarter than that!”_

_“Oh shut up.”_

_“Quinn's nice, no doubt about that, but she's like a piece of art. You can look, but you don't get to take it home. We both had her, yeah, but the difference between me and you, is that I clued in to her. Quinn thinks of herself as having high class, high quality, tang. You and me? We don't make the cut. You're just her side piece, so you might as well get it in elsewhere, cause all you and her will ever be is fuck buddies. Her lesbian college experience.”_

_“Dude, just because she realized you're full of shit, doesn't mean you know anything about our relationship.”_

_“Since when do you two have a_ relationship _? Have you ever even gone on a date?”_

_“You're a dick, you know that?”_

_“Dude, you're going to get mad because I'm just telling you the truth?”_

_“Fuck off, Puck,” Santana snapped. “I know what we got. I bet I marry her someday.”_

_Puck wondered if she was serious, and saw an opportunity. “I'll take that bet. Easy money.”_

_“How much?”_

_Puck mentally ran down his list. He thought there was no way in hell that Santana and Quinn would ever get over their shit enough to even date, let alone marry, but they already had the dollar tied up in another bet. “A dime.”_

_“Which one?”_

_“The mercury silver,” Puck answered. “But it has to be legit. Like you guys can't do a quickie Vegas wedding and turn around and divorce.”_

_“I know how a bet words. Shake on it, ass.”_

_Puck stuck his hand out, and Santana switched her hand on the steering wheel so she could shake Puck's hand with her left._

_“You're completely off it, Lopez,” Puck said when they pulled apart. “I'm going to completely own you when it's all over.”_

_Santana didn't like the nagging feeling that he was right, but then again, Quinn had said she wanted her just a few minutes ago. That was something to build a little hope on, right?_

_“Hey, San.” Noah said uncomfortably shifting on the seat, after a few silent minutes. He looked down at his crotch. “Some help?”_

_“You've got to be kidding!”_

_“Come on,” he whined. “It's your damn fault for freaking raping my ears.” He pouted. “For old time's sake? We used to get each other off all the time. No big deal.”_

_Santana keeping her eye on the road, leaned over, and undid the top of Noah's jeans, unzipping his pants. She gave a glance over. “Yep, still a penis, Noah. Grow a vagina and we'll talk.”_

_He grunted. Santana turned the radio on to classic rock. “Look at that, it's Journey!”_

* * *

Santana was trying to fix that; she was trying to shake up their old dynamic, so they could figure out how to be comfortable with each other, but she had failed to take into account that being open to communication, didn't mean that you suddenly started communicating; you still had to actually open your mouth in order to do that. Wanting to start a new future, didn't mean that your past suddenly disappeared, either. Santana's secrets had come banging up against her door in a big way, and if she had any hope of a future, and with Quinn, she had to start taking accountability for her actions and start airing them out.

* * *

_Puck startled awake when she pulled to a stop in front of Brittany's apartment building. “We here?” he questioned, looking out the window. “Awesome!”_

_Santana texted Brittany, and seconds later, it seemed, a window was thrown open from the second floor. “Hey, bitches!”_

_She threw down the key. Puck caught it over Santana's head, and they went in, Puck being the gentleman and carrying both of their bags inside. Brittany attacked both of them at the door, equally lathing their faces in kisses. “We're just finishing up filming a segment,” Brittany told them._

_Brittany had a two bedroom apartment. The master bedroom was made up as the Fondue for Two set, while she took the smaller bedroom as her bedroom. Unlike her cutesy one in high school, this one was painted in dark blues and vibrant greens and yellows, and it hurt Santana's head to look at it. She couldn't figure out how Brittany could actually live in it._

_“Who are you interviewing?” Santana questioned. “Please say a musical guest!” she loved Brittany's taste in Indie music._

_“Nope, but we don't have one today, so if you and Puck want to do something?” she suggested._

_Santana looked at Puck. He shrugged. “Do you have a guitar?”_

_“No, but my neighbor does! I'll go ask them as soon as I'm done. I'm about to interview Dr. Healy, a communications Professor from Emerson, about how the internet has changed the face of communications.” Leave it to Brittany to make it sound so exciting that you might actually want to watch it._

Fondue for Two _was no longer a one man (and cat) show. She had a hair and makeup girl who was studying at Empire Beauty School, a fellow geek from MIT was doing her filming and editing, and some girl from Northeastern, Tamara, was trying her hand at production, lining up the acts that came onto the show._ Fondue for Two _was on its way up._

* * *

“I'm sorry, for bringing up Jenna, again,” Santana apologized. “I was lashing out at you, and that's just not cool. I hit you a curve…no, I blindsided you, and then when you rightfully got upset with me for not being upfront and honest with you, especially about something as big as this, I brought up something that I said that I was over with. I'm sorry. I'm sorry if you feel that I make it hard for you to trust me sometimes, but it's not something that I do intentionally. I don't keep secrets because I think it's fun to fuck around with you. I keep secrets for protection. Even if that's the case, I can't expect you to just know something without me telling you, and if I don't tell you, I can't be upset with you for not knowing. I was a real dick for bringing Jenna into an argument that she had no place in, and I'm sorry. That's my wrong, not yours.”

* * *

_Santana and Puck followed Brittany onto the 'set' where sitting in the hot seat was an older woman, recently turned 32. She had a very distinguished look about her. Her flawless, wavy, almost black hair was tossed over one shoulder in an elegant braid. She wore thin, sleek, silver glasses that unobtrusively covered her stunning brown eyes. She was dressed casually in a bright canary ruffled blouse, beneath a blue vest, and was wearing a pair of brown jodhpurs. She looked like a model straight from a Ralph Lauren magazine. Or Bette Porter come to life._

_A grin spread over both Santana and Puck's faces at the sight of her. “Jenna!”_

_She rose from her seat, and hugged them both warmly, adding an extra squeeze at the end of Santana's hug. “Puckerman! Baby gay!”_

_“You ever going to stop calling me that?” Santana questioned._

_Jenna thought about it, giving Santana a glance over. “How old are you now?”_

_“22.”_

_“Nope. You're still just beginning to get your fingers wet.” Jenna gave Santana suggestive look, and blew her a fluttering kiss. Santana blushed; Jenna hadn't changed a bit._

_She turned her attention to Puck. “Still like being a military man, Puckerman?”_

_Her question brought about a stiffening of his smile, and a nod. “Yes, ma'am.”_

_“I don't see how you do it, and enlisted no less. My father could have flat out disowned me, and I still wouldn't have gone into the military. Not for nothing. Good thing he's a sexist, misogynistic prick who thinks that the military is just for boys, so I really lucked out! I would shoot myself if I were you, so you have my apologies.”_

_“For what?”_

_Jenna smiled. “Because I know firsthand what a bitch it is living underneath my dad's thumb; I can't imagine what it's like to have to drill under him.”_

_Puck laughed. “CO's are like parents, you don't get to choose either.”_

_“Ain't that the fucking truth!” Jenna cussed frequently, but it always seemed odd coming from her mouth, because she gave off the vibe that she grew up in a house where mouths were washed out with soap for saying bad words._

_They sat out of shot and watched Brittany and Jenna interact with each other. Well, Brittany interacted with Jenna. Jenna's eyes kept finding Santana, and even without her doing anything extra, she pretty much kept Santana pinned in place. Jenna was quietly intense, like a slow moving tropical storm you didn't realize was coming until suddenly your house was blown two counties over. Santana was no more interested in having sex with her now, then she had been when they first met, but Santana was appreciative of all that Jenna was. There were people out there who were attractive, and there were people who were smart, and there were people who were successful, and then there was that rare bird like Jenna, who was all three plus. Like Quinn, she grew up in a family were excellence was demanded, with strident consequences if you didn't meet the demand._

_Jenna, Dr. Penelope Jennifer Healy, was the least successful of her siblings, and the only one who didn't have any military service in her background. All three of her brothers had gone to the Air Force Academy, two had been pilots, all had served at least a four year tour, with the younger's service record including a tour in Iraq, Afghanistan, and Syria. He was a Lt. Colonial and the only one still in the service. Her oldest brother, Brigadier General Healy's namesake: Ronald Jefferson Healy, III, was the Deputy Commissioner of the Boston PD, and Albert (Albie), was a former JAG who was now an ADA._

_“How did Britt manage to convince you to do_ Fondue for Two _?” Santana questioned. She was pretty sure the two of them didn't know each other prior to this._

_“Actually my students convinced me to come. I'm getting mad credit with them for doing this interview.” She gave a smile at Brittany. “They love your web series Brittany.”_

_Brittany didn't seem affected by Jenna. “Duh.”_

_After Jenna's interview, Brittany successfully borrowed the guitar from her neighbor, and Santana sang_ Girl on Fire _, with Puck playing and providing background vocals. Jenna's penetrating stare didn't leave her the whole time. Although Jenna had very little to want, Santana knew that she envied Santana's musical talents, so Santana played with that. She saw Jenna as the older version of herself. The good manners and kind smiles were simply an act. Bitch recognized bitch. Santana recognized it in Jenna, and she played with it. In the few times they'd come across each other, they also seemed to have the same taste in females, or rather Jenna liked zooming in on who Santana was looking at, while Santana was still busy trying to work out a plan of attack. It was because of Jenna that Santana really learned not to hesitate._

“Several years ago, I made a mistake. We both know how much I like to show off, liked to show off,” she quickly corrected. “We may not know everything about each other, but we can agree on that. I like people paying attention to me, I like being the center of attention. And sometimes I just, don't, think.”

_They filmed them singing twice, just to make sure they had the best shot, but then the cameras was put up, the 'set' room was locked, alcohol was brought out, and people started showing up within a few hours. Jenna hung around, and Santana wondered if it was because she had intended to, or because Santana and Puck were there. She suspected it was the latter._

_Santana got tipsy, but made sure not to get sloppy. It didn't stop her from sending two text messages to Quinn telling her she should come join them since Boston was only two hours away from New Haven. Quinn declined, and Santana downed another shot, got slightly whiny, and majorly horny, but didn't make out with anyone. She took a body shot off of Brittany, but that was almost obligatory. She couldn't be at a party with Brittany without doing a body shot. It was like a rule written back when they were in high school, or something._

_Santana wanted to say that she enjoyed herself. She had fun. She drank, she danced, she mingled with college girls. She always liked hanging out with Puck and Brittany; but she wanted Quinn. And not just because she was picturing her in barely there lingerie, and certainly not because she made a bet with Puck._

_Midway through the night, Jenna seemed to get angry about something, and she ended up leaving in a cloud, Tamara and Brittany had disappeared, presumably together, and Puck was chatting up a really dense girl who was droolingly fascinated by the fact that Noah was an airman. Santana was betting that she'd cream herself if Puck had shown up in his uniform._

_In true wall flower fashion, Santana sat on the couch for most of the night, her phone clutched in her hands. She ignored it both times when Quinn called but had no logical reason for doing so other than that she wanted to talk to Quinn so badly that she didn't answer the phone. She listened to the one voicemail that Quinn left though. She apparently had decided to go out with Martin tonight, and she felt the need to tell Santana how boring it was. She didn't say I miss you, or that she wished that Santana was there with her; she could just hear that sentiment expressed in her voice. Santana listened to the message three times before she ended up falling asleep. S_ _ometime shortly after, she was aware of a familiar body, and musk collapsing beside her, Puck kissing her on the back of the head before draping a possessive arm around her, pulling him into her._

_*_

_The problem with parties, were early mornings. The problem with early mornings, well it was obvious what was wrong with them: they were too damned early. Santana had woken to Noah's boner in her back, because he had woken, like clockwork, at 4:00 a.m., and Santana had made the mistake of falling back asleep._

_Her cell phone annoyingly went off, and Santana was awake enough to be able to tell the difference between her warning alarm, and it's time to get up now! Santana had forgotten to bring any exercise clothes so she had to borrow some from Brittany. When she quietly snuck into Brittany's room, it was to see her ex sprawled out only halfway covered by the blanket and by the brown body that was asleep beside her, a leg and arm draped across her. Santana quietly got out a pair of Brittany's shorts and a MIT t-shirt. She took a pair of Brittany's track shoes, too._

_Santana had some time, so she decided to jog the six or so blocks to the Common. She paused on the corner of Commonwealth and Arlington Street, taking a moment to survey the landscape, and play 'can you spot the spotter', her eyes scanning over the early morning joggers, even the branches of the low hanging trees. She nearly jumped a foot in the air when she felt a hand tap her shoulder, two seconds before a voice said, “I'm behind you,” in German._

_“_ One night, in a bar, visiting with Puck, I showed off at the wrong time, in front of the wrong person, and I got offered a job because of it.”

Quinn's eyes stayed glued to Santana while her mind went swimming forward. Her first thoughts: mob, drug dealer, hired gun…

_When she turned, Bryne was looking at her with a smile plastered on her face._

_“Fucking Christ!” Santana muttered, then corrected herself before Bryne could. “Ficken christus!”_

_Bryne was the closest thing Santana had ever met to being a ninja. She was currently wearing a loose fitting jogging short set that was the gray of dusk. Her hair was brown today, but that meant nothing because it was almost always a different color every time she saw her. (And since her eyebrows were always dyed to match, too, Santana just automatically suspected that so was her bush). The only part of her that never changed was her height. Even her eyes changed color; Santana couldn't tell you what color Bryne's eyes actually were because she had seen her on more than one occasion with a different eye color and no discernible rim around the iris to alert someone to the fact that she was wearing contacts._

_“I trailed you for a whole block,” she informed Santana, still talking in German, her voice disapproving._

_“I wasn't expecting you to be here yet,” Santana answered. “It's still early.”_

_“It's always the attack you don't expect that ends up killing you,” Bryne said sounding very Yoda like. If Yoda spoke German._

_Bryne started to stretch. “Two times around the Common, and then we'll hit the gym.”_

_“I'm right behind you,” Santana replied._

_Coach Sue Sylvester was crazy, but her intense training had made her a well-conditioned athlete. It was usually when she was in the midst of a really intense work out that she wondered how she would have fared in boot camp. No offense to Noah, but she'd never go into the military as enlisted, but she did think about going in as an officer every now and then. If she didn't have any jobs lined up, she would have talked to a recruiter by now, but since she did have prospects, and finally an idea of the direction she wanted her life to take, she didn't consider it much anymore. Really, it was just a mild curiosity over how well she'd do. She was sure she'd set records and stuff._

_Bryne's pace was steady, but it wasn't brutal. The reason for the slower pace was because she kept up a steady stream of conversation the whole time, and expected Santana to respond back, correcting her when she mispronounced a word. Bryne questioned her on the people that they passed. What they were wearing, what they looked like, who they were with. Santana didn't have a photographic memory, not entirely, but she did have a large capacity of being able to store and retrieve information, and she noticed anomalies. This was how she knew Bryne. They worked together. Well, they worked for the same agency, General Services, even if it was in vastly different ways._

_“I read your thesis,” Bryne said conversationally. They passed by the George Washington statue, the marker for the end of their first 2 mile lap._

_“What'd you think?” Santana questioned. She didn't bother asking how Bryne had gotten a copy of her senior thesis. She actually didn't care. Like Jenna, there were certain features about Bryne that she just liked/admired. She felt oddly comfortable around the woman, despite the fact that she shouldn't, and she knew that. Bryne was deadly, but Santana never felt as if she were in any danger by being around her._

_“What are you thinking about doing after graduation?”_

_Santana wished that her mind didn't instantly go to Quinn, but it did. She didn't really want to make plans until she talked to Quinn, and she didn't want to talk to Quinn about it in case Quinn really did feel about her the way Noah said, so she wasn't too earnest in making plans. If nothing else, she could continue to do freelance work if she didn't get in to any of the schools she applied to. “Enroll in a grad program, somewhere. I think I want to go for an MFA.”_

_“How do you say, would you like fries with that in German,” Bryne teased, switching to English to ask._

_“Ha Ha, Bryne. Möchten Sie Pommes dazu?”_

_Bryne laughed and switched back to German. “Where are you looking into going?”_

_“Columbia, or NYU if I stay in New York. Or maybe move here. Go to Boston College or, who knows, Harvard. Intern at a publishing house.”_

_“I know someone at Little & Brown,” Bryne piped up. “I have an admissions connection at Harvard, too, if you really want to go.”_

_Santana tried to imagine herself at Harvard. NYU wasn't anything to shake a stick at, but Harvard was Ivy League. She wondered if the idea would make Quinn proud of her, or somehow jealous, or get her thinking that Santana was once again trying to one-up her. Santana suspected all of the above, but then quickly wondered why she was spending so much time thinking about a girl who she wasn't in a relationship with, and never would be. God, Puck was right. Quinn completely fit the bill for 'gay until you graduate'. Santana wasn't sleeping with anyone, and Quinn had Martin. Sure she and Santana had better sex, but in the Fabray world, a pedigree was better than an orgasm. And Quinn still hung onto the idea that she wasn't actually gay._

* * *

“It's a completely sanctioned, legitimate, tax-paying job,” Santana added that last part because of the look that Quinn was giving her, “but what it did was change me from that vapid girl who used her powers to give you mono, and into something else completely. It shifted the way I see things. When you pay attention, actually pay attention to the things outside of you, the world changes.”

* * *

_“Have you put some thought into becoming an agent instead of just doing analyst work? You'd be good at it, you already train for it, and starting out in the field you'd be making 80k easy.”_

_It wasn't the pay that was intriguing, it was the 'field work', and the television influenced idea of her shooting off someone's head while completely wearing spandex, that appealed to her. Though she'd never seen Bryne in spandex, and she doubted she ever shot someone's head off. It'd be too messy, and Santana was sure Bryne could hit someone right through the eye. (It would have just been flat out blind naiveté on her part to think that Bryne's never killed anyone). Oh, and also the killing part. That didn't appeal to her either._

_“How often do you travel?” Santana posed rhetorically._

_“I don't travel,” Bryne joked, “I live everywhere.”_

_“Doesn't that get lonely?”_

_“Lonely as hell, but what can I say, I like what I do.” It was statements like that, uttered so casually, that should have warned Santana off of Bryne, but it didn't. She trusted a woman she didn't even know's last name._

_Bryne went back to quizzing Santana, this time on people they'd passed some time ago. With no warning, Bryne stuttered in her run, and Santana paused, instantly on guard, her eyes scanning, but Bryne was back to her normal speed, and Santana had to put on a burst of energy to catch up. “What was that?”_

_Bryne winced. “I hate seeing that,” she said._

_“What?” Santana's eyes scanned, and landed on a woman, sure that she was who Bryne was talking about. She was wearing a black Nike fitted top, yoga pants, and cross trainers but she didn't look like she was here to work out. She was as slender as Santana, maybe even more so, with her brown hair pulled back into a high pony. She was maybe two inches taller than Santana, and she guessed a few years older. She looked far too troubled for it to be so early in the morning. They had moved already moved past her when Santana exclaimed, “I know her! Well, I've seen her before. She was at my friend Britt's apartment last night. At a party.” She couldn't remember seeing her with anyone else, but she was sure of it._

_“Did she look off at the party?” Bryne wondered. Santana tried to work if Bryne was thinking that she had been assaulted there. If he had, Bryne would probably be more likely to investigate it solely because Santana had been there, and she was protective. Santana frowned, because she honestly couldn't remember._

* * *

“What the fuck does that mean, Santana?” Quinn questioned in sheer frustration. Why can't you just talk to me like a normal person would?”

“Because I'm not! Normal. You want to know answers. You want to know about Phillip, and my job, and all of my secrets; I'm trying to explain them to you the best way I know how. I'm laying it all out in front of you. I made a mistake. Like going down a dark alley at night, I made a stupid, dumb, mistake, a miscalculation in judgement, and it changed everything about who I am. My biggest concern used to be what would happen if I got caught shoplifting. My biggest consequence used to be getting grounded. I don't live in that world anymore. I talk in circles because I have to make sure I know every possible response before I say anything. I keep things from you because I don't want you to have to do the same. My world isn't black and white anymore, and I've been trying to hide that fact from you, because it's not something you can take back.”

* * *

_They finished up their lap, and while Bryne was stretching, Santana excused herself. It took her five minutes to find the woman. She was pretty much walking without direction, her mind focused inward. Santana jogged to a stop beside her. “Hey,” Santana greeted._

_Dark green eyes looked at her, recoiled slightly, but then corrected herself. She looked away, and started to walk again. Santana matched her pace. “My name's Santana. You were at my party last night?”_

_There wasn't a bruise on her, but the way she was walking seemed to scream that she was in pain. Santana stepped in front of her so she couldn't keep walking. “There are places,” Santana kept on. “You don't have to stay with whoever's doing that to you.”_

_Santana touched her, and she pulled away violently. Santana frowned. “I'm sorry,” she said quickly. “I'm sorry.” She wanted to offer her something, but she didn't know what. She didn't have a piece of paper and pen on her to give a phone number. “That apartment you were at last night? That's my friend's place. If you need some help, you can go over to her, and she can put you in touch with me.”_

_The woman stepped around her, and continued walking. Santana stood there for a few seconds longer, before she jogged back over to where Bryne was waiting._

* * *

Santana went to the book case, and searched the shelf until she found the book she was looking for. It was a hardcover, elongated book, with white and yellow lettering on it, and a dog, with a baby bird standing on the dog's head. It looked like a Dr. Seuss book, but the author was named P.D. Eastman. Santana handed the book to Quinn. She read the title off of it: _Are You My Mother?_

Quinn was trying to be patient but she was so sick of the games. She just wanted her wife to be honest with her. She wanted Santana to actually give her something tangible that she could hold on to. Something that made sense.

Quinn wanted to throw the book at Santana, or on the ground, but before she could do either it slipped from her fingers, and fell in a way that the book landed undisturbed on its back, but it dislodged the piece of paper that was hidden within.

* * *

_“Did you find her?” she questioned knowingly._

_Santana nodded. “It was stupid, I know.”_

_“Not stupid,” Bryne corrected. “Foolishly hopeful, but I understand: every now and then I want to find all the dipshits out there who'd do that to someone and beat the hell out of them.”_

_“So, let's do that,” Santana said seriously. She was almost itching for a fight. She hadn't gotten into a brawl since high school, and she was far better at fighting now then she was back then._

_“We could,” Bryne said without any weight to her words. “Watch where she goes, follow her home, plan an attack…only that'd be reckless, and stupid, and will end you in jail for assault.”_

_“You've got strings, right?” Santana naively questioned._

_Bryne laughed. “Yep. But at some point you've got to realize that you can't beat up everyone.”_

_“Okay, so what if we like drag that woman to the closest battered woman shelter?”_

_“That wouldn't do any good, either.”_

_“Why not?”_

_“Taking her to a shelter would most likely just add to her troubles. You have to file a police report to stay at most places, and I'd bet my eye teeth that the person who did that is a cop.”_

_“Do you know her? How do you know that?” Santana asked out of curiosity, wondering what she had missed that Bryne hadn't._

_“Because she doesn't have a bruise on her, and usually the people who know how to hit someone without leaving a mark are chronic abusers or are in law enforcement.”_

_Santana couldn't get the image of the woman out of her mind. “So we do nothing?”_

_“Did you give her your number?”_

_“I told her where she could contact me if she needed some help.”_

_“Wait and see if she does.”_

“I have a son, Quinn. His name is Phillip Jacob Lopez. He was born at 3:16 in the afternoon, on September 14th, in Boulder Colorado. He weighed a hefty 9 lbs., and was 22 inches long.”

_Santana and Puck hugged fiercely at the airport. Saying good-bye was always the hard part for them. Puck traveled in his civvies when he was coming, and in his uniform when he was going, and it was easy to forget that Puck was in the military when they were playing video games together miles apart, and when they were partying together, or just fucking joking around, but when they said good-bye after brief visits, Santana couldn't forget that he was an airman, and airmen were called to fight._

_Santana pushed him away from her, which earned a smile from Puck, and a kiss on her forehead. “Love you, Lopez.”_

_“Love you, too, you sap.”_

Quinn picked up the piece of paper that had fallen out of the book, already knowing what it was before she read the words that merely reiterated what Santana was saying.

_Santana gave Puck the courtesy of watching him up to the gate, before she pulled her phone out of her pocket. She recognized that she's not thinking clearly when she checked the time, but still she called Quinn. “She lives!” Quinn greeted, her sarcasm not enough to completely mask the happiness in her voice._

_“Do you still want me?” she purred._

_In the pause she wondered if Quinn checked the time. If she'd looked at it like: 'it's 6:00 p.m., now, on Sunday night, it's 4 hours on the train, there and back, and she had to be up for an 8:00 class, and Santana had to be up for a 10:00 class', or if she was just thinking about what Santana could do with her hands, lips, tongue, and any other part of her skilled body._

_“I do.”_

_Santana shivered at the words. “I'm heading for the train now. Remember what you were wearing when you called me Thursday? Have that on when I get there.”_

_Quinn gave a giggle. In her head, Santana was already tangled up in Quinn's limbs so she nearly missed it when Quinn asked her how her weekend was. Santana was heading to the only part of the weekend that she cared about._

_“Uneventful,” she answered._

* * *

Quinn stared at the piece of paper as if doing so would somehow change the words that were written on it. But no. Every time she looked at it it still said the same thing: _Certificate of Live Birth_. Mother: Santana Quintanilla Lopez. Father: Noah Elijah Puckerman.


	24. Like Notices Like

Chapter 24: Like Notices Like  
  


Tears have been said to be the palate cleanser of the soul. There are many ways that we express ourselves. We laugh when we're happy. We frown when we're sad. We curl our lips when we're angry. And when we're everything, all at once, we cry.

There have been many quotes about tears. Steve Maraboli says that 'a broken heart bleeds tears'. Charles Dickens reasoned, 'heaven knows we need never be ashamed of our tears, for they are rain upon the blinding dust of earth, overlying our hard hearts'.

There are many different types of tears, the type you cry when you're so happy that you don't know what else to do. There are tears you cry from being so angry that you want to punch something. Tears that are shed because your whole body is just so disjointed, so broken, so achy, that your heart just doesn't do anything else.

The kind of tears you cry when you find out that your wife had a kid with her best guy friend, who, coincidentally, is also the father of your one and only child, and never told you? Eve 6 had this to offer: 'here's to the nights we felt alive, here's to the tears you knew you'd cry, here's to good bye, tomorrow's gonna come too soon.'

* * *

**March 04, 2014**

Flight of the Bumblebees _started playing, and Quinn tried not to sigh because she didn't really want to talk to Martin at the moment, but she felt bad, as she always did, if she ignored his call. "Hi, Marty," she said pleasantly. They were always pleasant with each other._

"Lovie! I would be honored if you allowed me to take you out tonight. I was thinking I could pick you up at 7:00?"

Quinn looked at the clock on the phone, and also checked to see if she had somehow gotten a text or an alert that she had a missed call since she answered the phone. "That sounds nice, Martin," she replied.

"Great. I shall see you then."

Quinn checked to make sure the call was ended before checking the call log. No missed calls, and no text messages. Quinn wondered what Santana, Puck, and Brittany were up to. She wondered why Santana hadn't invited her to come along. Santana had Friday classes, and had obviously skipped out on them to go to the city early, which was unsurprising. Quinn had told Santana last weekend that she had to study for this upcoming test, and that it was really important, but it still would have been nice for her to ask, especially since this trip couldn't have been made on the spur of the moment because Noah wasn't allowed to just up and dash across the country whenever he had a whim to do so.

She wondered if Santana hadn't texted her because she had let 'I want you' slip from her mouth. It hadn't been intentional, it had just slipped because Quinn had been looking so forward to seeing Santana, had even go so far as to take a test early to do so, and in appreciation of her efforts (not that she knew about them), she had planned a trip that didn't include Quinn. 

And why hadn't she texted her back? True, they didn't regularly text back and forth to each other, they weren't those kind of people, but Quinn wanted to hear from Santana, even if it was just in a text message. She didn't respond to any of the ones that Quinn had sent her last night. Maybe something had happened to her. Quinn rolled her eyes at herself. Santana was probably still hung over from the night before, and had laid in the bed until midafternoon or something. Still…it would have been nice for her to at least return her text.

Quinn had forgotten to ask Martin where they were going for dinner, not that it mattered. Martin always showed up in the same outfit for their dates, just in different colors, and Quinn wore some variation of the summer dress, cardigan, or tasteful skirt, blouse, and pearl combination. She would go for the later tonight, and the pearl bracelet that her mother had given her for winter formal freshman year. She caught her reflection in the mirror, and felt she looked like Mellie Grant, the president's wife from Scandal.

She thought about what that must feel like. Martin was politically involved. He had been on the board of the Model Congress, and was a member of the Political Union and the Yale College Republicans. He was currently in his 3 rd year of Yale law, and in between his undergraduate and graduate years he'd interned at the White House. Unlike Biff, who hadn't seemed to know anything about her, Martin knew practically everything. While he didn't respond to Quinn's Ryan Seacrest tattoo quite the way that Santana did (3 and a half years of them having sex and Santana was still amused by it, tracing the lines of his face with the tip of her nail, dragging her tongue over her ironic tattoo ironically), he didn't seem to mind it that much, either, though that could have been because they hadn't had sex more than a handful of times, too.

Martin really was the perfect guy. He was sweet, compassionate, he loved god, his mama, and his country, in that order, he had an old rowing boat that he'd made himself, and was all southern charm and decorum. Quinn had taken him home to meet her mother, once, and she of course adored him, and Frannie's oldest, William, who was four, liked him.

Martin was easy. She didn't argue with Martin, she didn't have to work for anything with Martin. She could mention liking something and he would get it for her. He would watch movies with her that she knew he couldn't be interested in, he helped her study, and he held her hand, and she never had to wonder where things stood between them because he always told her. He wasn't sarcastic, or witty, or caustic. She didn't have to worry about him telling an inappropriate joke, or if she had a University function to go to, she always knew that he would dress properly for the occasion. She could depend on him. She always knew what he was going to do.

Once again she checked her phone. She never had to wait for him to respond to her calls.

"Lovie, you look amazing," Martin greeted her. Martin looked handsome, as per usual. He was wearing a simple black suit, with a white shirt, and a black tie. Very simplistic. He kissed her on the cheek. "This is for you," he said, handing her a white rose.

Their dinner designation was the Union League Café. Martin, ever the gentleman, opened doors for her, pulled out chairs, even ordered for her, something that slightly irritated her, but that she'd gotten used to while they were dating. "I'm glad that we're doing this," Martin said over their salads, while they were waiting for the main course. He reached for her hand, caressing it over the table. "We hardly get time to ourselves, what with my work load, and you always rushing off to New York it seems like every other weekend lately."

"The house situation in New York is impossible to navigate, and the job market is even worse. My friends have been trying to get me used to the idea of actually living in the city."

"To be honest, I don't understand why you're thinking about New York. You're not a New Yorker, lovie, and it's a coin toss as to whether or not you're going to even get the internship with Cantor Fitzgerald. You've got a solid job offer with PNB in Chicago. Chicago is a fabulous city."

"Isn't Chicago like the crime capital of the country or something like that?"

Martin gave her a look that wasn't entirely condescending. "Not on our side of the water. Illinois also has a provisional reciprocity agreement with Virginia, which makes it perfect for us. You can do your two years like you want, and then we can move back to Virginia, where you can go to UVA, and I can get started on my political career."

"New York's bar has reciprocity with 27 other states, including Virginia." She knew, she looked it up in anticipation of having this conversation.

"I can't live in New York, Quinn," Martin said with a straight face. "Be real, sweetheart. It's a liberal stronghold. Illinois may be known for its corruptive politics, but it's at least in the Midwest. My constituents would never forgive me, no matter how much I explained that I did it for my wife's ambitions, if I became a resident of the city."

"Wife?" Quinn questioned.

Martin didn't seem to think that he'd said anything extraordinary. "Yes, wife, Quinn. You date to marry, or did you wish to remain my mistress for the duration? I want to be a politician, but not that kind." He reached into his breast pocket. "I was going to wait until after dinner to do this, but since we're having this conversation anyway-," He produced a ring, the diamond at least 2 carats. "Should we make this official? Quinn, will you marry me?"

* * *

'So denied, so I lied, are you the now or never kind. In a day, and a day love, I'm going to be gone for good again.'

* * *

_That fact that Quinn was neither surprised by the gesture, nor immediately able to answer despite this being the crux of what she should have wanted, was so very telling._

"Martin." Quinn was finally able to regain her voice. "Don't you think that this is very soon?"

"I'm not rushing you off to the chapel, but I don't want there being any mistake in who you are to me."

How honest, how straight forward. He made the words sound so easy. I want you, I don't want anyone else to have you, here's a ring to prove it. He was staking his claim, and risking rejection, and he didn't seem entirely phased by it. Quinn wished that she expressed that same calmness about life. She always seemed frantic about something, about being discovered and denounced as a fraud, about putting herself out there only to get rejected.

"And what if I do get that internship at Cantor Fitzgerald? If I get it, and it's the best option for me, I'm going to take it." How could she explain to the man who had just proposed to her that whether or not Quinn was actually a New Yorker didn't matter, because the most appealing thing in New York wasn't the Internship and the chance to fetch some really high priced coffee for some world class dicks, nor was it the fame of New York; its sole appeal was her former high school best friend who she couldn't help but love, even if she would never love her back. She didn't love Martin, and she doubted he loved her either, despite his nickname for her, yet that didn't seem to matter. Quinn couldn't help feeling that it should.

"All the more reason for us to get engaged, then," Martin said assuredly. "So even though we'll be living apart, everyone will know who you belong with."

Who did Quinn belong with?

"Give me some time to think about it?"

Martin returned the ring back to his breast pocket, and took Quinn's hand in his own. Thankfully no one around had noticed the proposal. "Take all the time you need."

* * *

Quinn seemed surprised that Santana was still in front of her. That they were still having a conversation, that words were still being spoken. Quinn lifted her eyes from that damnable piece of paper, to Santana, connected her moving mouth with the words that were being spoken. "Watching you plan this life with Martin, it ate at something inside of me. Instead of opening my mouth and apologizing for shutting you down when you came to talk to me about us, and telling you how I felt, I watched you move further away from me. I figured the Martin's of the world were what you wanted, who you were always going to end up with, and I was so far away from that, that I didn't even want to bother with trying."

* * *

_The clock read 8:30_ when there was an impatient pounding on the door. Quinn prayed that it was Santana on the other side of the door because if it was her roommate…well she prayed it wasn't. "It's open," Quinn called. Santana came through the door anxiously, pausing when she saw the sight of Quinn on her twin bed, her legs open and inviting, wearing exactly what she promised. Santana rocked in the doorway from sheer surprise. "Fuck, baby."

"You like it?" Quinn questioned. "I picked it out just for you."

Santana kicked the door shut behind her, dropped her bag in the entrance, and pretty much dived for Quinn. Santana sealed her lips to Quinn's and Quinn responded back with equal enthusiasm. Kissing Santana was everything kissing everyone else, even Puck, wasn't. I missed you, got caught in her throat, so she tried to express the sentiment with her body. I want you. She wanted her so badly that she imagined that Santana felt the same, that there was an extra tenderness to Santana's movements that wasn't normally there.

"San?" Quinn questioned with a sudden urgency. At first Santana didn't look up from what she was doing. "San!"

Santana drew back with a curious frown on her face. "What's up, babe?"

Marry me. Those words had just seemed to flow so easy from Martin's mouth. Not just that but his assurance that he wanted a claim on Quinn, that he had any right to stake one. What must it feel like to be so self-assured? To not have any doubts, to have the nerve to claim what you wanted?

Santana's eyes narrowed. "Quinn?" she questioned. She sounded nervous, worried. Had Quinn said the words out loud?

"I want you," Quinn said audibly, tugging on Santana's shirt. Santana helped her take it off, but then her mouth was instantly back on Quinn's. They kissed for god knows how long, Quinn ignoring the need between her legs because when she said she wanted Santana, it was like this, pressed up against her, skin touching skin, lips exploring lips. In the moment, she didn't necessarily need penetration, or friction, she just needed Santana. And it hurt, it hurt so much because she would never have this with Martin, or anyone else. And she'd never have it with Santana either.

Quinn surprised Santana when she drew back suddenly, flipping her over so that Santana was on the bottom. Quinn didn't usually top, and it was even rarer for her lips to trail kisses on Santana's abdomen, for her shoulders to spread Santana's legs open, for her head to disappear in between them. Quinn wasn't a natural in this area, but she did what she always did, studied until she got better, put in the work and perfected it until it was done. She got Santana off using only her tongue, her lips, and her teeth.

For a long moment, Santana just lay there, even after her body stopped trembling. Quinn lifted her gaze to meet Santana's to see why. When their eyes connected, they stared at each other like no one and nothing else existed, but then they blinked and it was gone. Santana cracked a joke: "Puck thinks your vanilla."

Quinn laughed, then proceeded to show Santana just how un-vanilla she really was.

* * *

Quinn felt light-headed. She wondered if she was going to start hyperventilating. "So you got pregnant with Puck's kid because Martin asked me to marry him? Wouldn't it have been so much easier to have just opened up your fucking mouth and say 'Hey, I have issue with that'?"

* * *

**March 18, 2016**

_Quinn had a plan. It was a stupid, impulsive plan, but it was a plan. I_ t was a plan that meant that she would be eating Ramon noodles for every meal that wasn't on her meal plan, and that she wouldn't get to taste another cup of coffee until the end of the semester. It was a plan that would thrust her forward into a future of uncertainty. It was a plan that cost her $800 in cash, and a $1000 on a credit card that she had just opened. It was a plan that involved a 3/8 ths of a carat marquise diamond set in 14k gold, gold because everyone else had white gold or platinum rings these days, and Santana was unlike everyone else. If Martin felt like he had a right to stake a claim on Quinn, then Quinn would stake hers on Santana. She didn't want anyone else to be able to say that they had a claim on something that was hers.

"Hey, babe!"

Quinn startled, because she hadn't seen Santana sneak up, and her heart was still racing when she felt a hand sneak around her waist. It was second nature for her to pull away, to take a step back from the embrace because they were in public. Santana only gave a shake of her head.

"So, I kind of let it slip to Berry that you were coming this weekend. She wants us to have dinner at her place, and she's kind of in a pissy mood because she thinks that I hog you, and she really just doesn't understand the fundamental difference between friendship and fuckship."

"What?"

"She doesn't understand why you spend more time with me than her, because she just doesn't get that you know, you might want to see the person you're having sex with a little more often than you want to see the Hobbit. Unless…you and Rachel haven't…you know?"

"Santana!"

"What? You and the Hobbit were all up on each other."

"It was just a kiss."

"Your shirt was off!"

Quinn wanted to say, 'so what if we were' because Santana sounded jealous, and Santana fucked whoever she wanted, whenever she wanted. "Should I tell Rachel we're coming?"

"I don't care what we do; I just want to drop my bag off," Quinn whined. She had spent most of the ride listening to Beyoncé's Single Ladies on repeat to help build up her courage, but now that Santana was here in front of her, it was a completely different story.

Santana gave her a sideways glance. "What's with you, Fabray?"

"Nothing."

They went by Santana's apartment to drop off Quinn's stuff, and as soon as it was determined that Santana's roommate was nowhere to be found (Quinn had yet to actually run across her, actually), they had a quickie against the door. Quinn didn't want to show up at Rachel's with the smell of sex all over her body, so she took a shower, and they had a quickie on the bathroom floor. After she got dressed, they went over to Rachel's but Quinn couldn't concentrate on anything other than the ring that was sitting in the box, back in her bag at Santana's apartment.

She hadn't made any other plans other than to present her with the ring. Now she realized how ill-conceived that was. Maybe they could work their way up to it. Like 'Hey what classes are you taking in the summer? By the way, will you marry me?' Quinn felt immensely stupid. What was she thinking?

"What're you obsessing over?" Santana questioned when they were leaving Rachel's. Quinn shook her head, and didn't say anything.

* * *

Put your name, on the line, along with place and time. Wanna stay, not to go, I want to ditch the logical. Here's a toast, to all those who hear me all too well.

* * *

_Quinn woke up in the middle of the night,_ Santana fast asleep beside her. Quinn watched her sleep. Santana didn't sleep pretty. Her hair always ended up every which way on the pillow, she always took up more than her part of the bed, she slept with her mouth open slightly, and snored at least 30% of the time. Quinn had Santana's sleep pattern memorized. She knew that although Santana struggled not to cuddle with her, her sleep self gravitated toward the other person in bed. She knew that Santana generally slept serenely, but every now and then her sleep self adopted a 'cut a bitch' expression, and if you asked her what she dreamed about, she couldn't tell you.

Was this really what she wanted? To fall asleep beside Santana every night, to wake up beside her in the morning? To fight over everything, from beauty products in the bathroom, to clothes being left on the floor? There was no else in the world that aggravated Quinn half as much as Santana did. But there was also no one else who made her feel the way Santana did either. "Babe, seriously," Santana grunted, startling Quinn. "Spit it out already, you're driving me crazy!"

Quinn didn't say anything, just backed into Santana until she was forced to put her arm around Quinn. "God, you're lucky you're pretty," Santana said sleepily. She adjust her arms to hold Quinn more comfortably, planting a kiss almost absently on the back of her neck. "Now get some rest so I can wear you out properly in the morning."

Quinn managed to sleep after that, but she was up early the next morning. No way was Martin braver than she was, she reasoned. Sure he might have had more money, and all Quinn had at the moment was the Yale degree she'd have in a few months and a possible internship that paid $12 an hour for the next 2 years, but she knew her earnings potential, and if Santana stuck it out with her, it wouldn't be Ramon noodles for long.

'All she can say is no', she reminded herself.

When she couldn't stand to be in the bed any longer, she slipped from beneath Santana's arm and padded into the kitchen. Santana wasn't likely to be up for a few more hours, and she'd be hungry when she did. So what if she just had the ring sitting out on the counter? Quinn imagined Santana stumbling into the kitchen, and seeing the box sitting there. How would she react?

Quinn made herself a PB&J, and seeing that the jar was very nearly empty, she thought about slipping the ring inside. Santana was like a little kid, if she saw Quinn with something she'd want it to. She scooped the remainder of the peanut butter from the jar, washed it and rinsed it out, and placed the ring inside. She screwed the top back on, but left the container sitting out on the counter where it'd be hard to miss. Not that long after, she heard Santana moving around, followed very shortly by her calling for her.

Trying to get Santana to get out of the bed to fix her a sandwich ended up turning into Santana going down on her, which got interrupted because Santana couldn't seem to help mentioning Brittany while they were in the middle of sex, and of course it made her think back to that letter that was sitting on the counter with Boston College's emblem in the corner. Santana was thinking about the future, and it was a future that included Brittany in it, but not her. She was stupid, she was so stupid. It was always going to be Brittany, but fuck if Santana wasn't confusing because if Quinn would be in Santana's love spell, than what the hell did that mean? That Santana loved her? That it was one of her three favorite things? That Harry Potter was a fictional story about a boy wizard that had no relevance to her life?

"I'd be in your love potion?" Quinn found herself saying as she came out of the bathroom. It was something, at least, something to hang some hope on. It wasn't much, but it was something. She tried to get Santana to engage in a conversation with her, trying to steer it toward the direction Quinn wanted it to go to. They got off topic again, and then they had sex, because that's what they did. After, she tried again, but Santana brushed her off, again, and Quinn was frustrated, again. And then they fought. Because that's what they did, too. They went hard at each other, and were so fucking dysfunctional, and it finally hit Quinn that even if Santana did care about her, she was so scared of what they could have that she wouldn't allow her to talk about it.

So it didn't matter what was sitting in the bottom of the peanut butter jar because Santana would never get up the nerve to open it, to see inside. Why was it that Martin was easy and he wanted her, but Santana was the one that she wanted, and was so damned hard to be with?

* * *

"That's what adults do, Santana, they talk to each other. They tell each other what they're feeling when they're feeling it. They don't have a kid with their best friend because, what? Because I was planning a life with Martin because you wouldn't plan one with me?"

* * *

**March 19, 2016**

_Quinn couldn't imagine a worse ending to a weekend._ On the train ride back to New Haven, she buried her face in her Studies of Business Cycles Theories book, and pretended that she found the appendix interesting enough to warrant her attention for the whole train ride. It was good that she was so practiced in not letting her emotions show, because she was a wreck for the whole trip. She lucked out when she got to the dorm because her roommate's stuff was still gone, which made sense because it was only Saturday night, and she had gone home for the weekend. So Quinn was alone. How fitting: she always ended up alone.

She closed the door behind her, planning on unpacking her bag, putting her books away, tucking her shoes underneath her bed, but she didn't get that far. She didn't make it past closing the door before she sank to the floor, sobs being drawn out from somewhere deep down inside of her. She felt like she was dying, even worse, she felt like her heart had broken. That she was broken. This had not been the way things were supposed to go.

There was something wrong with her. Maybe on the molecular level, somewhere deep down, there had to be something wrong with her because how could it be easier to raise a hand to hit someone than to take the girl that she was in love with in her arms and tell her that she was her choice. Santana was the standard that she compared everyone else to, which wasn't really fair to anyone else because no one compared. That sucked for Quinn because she didn't think Santana felt the same. No, correction. Santana felt something for her, maybe even love, but for Santana loving Quinn hurt. Santana had said that being with her didn't make her feel good. Santana said that she wouldn't be her excuse. Was that really what Santana thought she was to her? Her excuse? Even worse: was that how Santana felt like Quinn treated her?

Quinn hadn't been looking for an excuse. Maybe, if she was being honest, she had tried to manipulate a response from Santana when she brought up Martin, but that had only back fired on her brilliantly. Not only had it triggered an argument, but Santana didn't even flinch when Quinn told her that Martin proposed. And why would she? Santana would always have someone there to keep her warm; what did it matter if things between her and Quinn cooled?

**April 1, 2016**

Quinn could feel it in the air. Something fundamentally had changed between them. As soon as Santana walked into her space it was like they were two opposing armies lining up to go to battle against each other. The sex was like a well-choreographed fight, too, with hair pulling, slapping, and insults included, and two and a half orgasms mixed somewhere in there. Two and a half, because neither of them would ask of anything from each other, just took it, and when Quinn left Santana feeling unsatisfied, Santana refused to open her mouth to say that she needed something more.

It was like now that the 'L-word' had been brought up, they weren't allowed to show any acknowledgement that that was what it was. It was too much feeling, and both of them were angry, and neither of them were talking about the thing that made them angry, even though it was the same for both of them: they were hurt. It made them angry, too, that the other could hurt them because that meant that they were invested in each other enough to make it hurt.

Quinn didn't want to keep hurting all the time. She was done with the back and forth, and just couldn't keep breaking herself over Santana. She understood what Santana meant when she'd said loving her hurt. What she and Santana were doing, it just didn't feel good.

**May 03, 2016**

"Stalking is illegal you know," Santana was informed as a woman sat down beside her.

Santana shrugged, nodding to the brown bag that now sat on the bench between them. "I brought you a sprouts, bean, and broccoli pita. No dressing."

The woman hesitated at the kindness. "How do you know I'm a vegetarian?"

"One of my roommate in college was vegan. It was a lucky guess."

"What do you want?"

Santana shrugged. "What everyone wants: sex, drugs, and rock 'n roll."

"What do you want with me?"

Santana tried to convey to her, her sincerity. "You look like you can use a friend. And maybe lunch." She, the woman who secretly Santana referred to as downward facing smile, opened the bag, pulled out the pita, and sniffed it. "Christ, I didn't poison it," Santana snapped. Downward tentatively took a bite. Then another. "So, is there anything you want to talk about?"

"That's not very subtle."

Santana nodded. "We've all got our strengths. Me, I've always been a straight up bitch who tells it like is, but subtle, that's not one of my stronger suits."

Downward pushed some of the escaping sprouts back into the pita. "I know what you think."

"That's impressive, because sometimes I'm not sure what I think."

"About me. You think that I'm with someone who hits me, but you're wrong."

Santana shook her head. "Now, that can't be true. Others might be wrong from time to time, but I never am. I'm perfect. I taught Christ how to walk on water."

"We got into a fight. We both have fiery tempers, and sometimes we explode at each other." There was a flicker behind Santana's eyes at the words. "I threw my own blows, too."

Santana nodded. "Okay. I'm not in love with my best friend."

This made the woman look at her oddly. "There both lies, see," Santana explained. "And they both hurt two people. The only difference is that my lie, doesn't put people in the hospital."

Downward gave Santana a hard look, then took a bite of the pita. "You're not a very good at this. You're not supposed to call me a liar."

"I'm not a crisis counselor; I'm a college student. We're pretty much useless except for binge drinking, complaining about the world, and condensing the English language down to 144 characters." Santana gestured in the air. "#1984isnow #thestruggleisreal."

Santana could tell that downward didn't know whether to be annoyed or amused, which told her that she was doing something right. Especially since she kept talking. "Where do you go? Emerson?"

"BC."

"For what?"

"I'm getting a Master's degree in English."

"How good are you at saying 'Do you want fries with that?" Santana grimaced. Were there honestly no other English major jokes? How about 'What happens when you have your past, present, and future lovers all in the same room? You get tense'.

"No, I'm being smart about it. I'm already working for the company that I hope to get a job with after I get my MFA."

"What company?"

"Little, Brown. It's a publishing house around the corner on Center Plaza. I work in the mail room," Santana offered freely. "Do you work around here?"

Downward's eyes fell downward. "I used to," she said, softly, regret tangible in her voice.

"Laid off?"

"I quit." It was said so firmly Santana knew that she wasn't going to say anything else about it. She didn't' seem as if she was going to say anything else at all.

Santana stretched out on the bench. "It's okay, I like the silent type. We don't have to talk," Santana said. "We can just sit."

"I know who you are," Downward facing smile says.

Santana tilted her head. "I know who I am, too. Well…I know I think, therefore I am." Santana paused. "It sounded funnier in my head. I would think that we know each other, or at least have a friend in common since we were at the same party."

"You're Santana Lopez. Brittany's friend."

"You watch Fondue for Two?"

Downward nods. "You're a really good singer."

Santana pulled out her phone. Downward facing smile frowned. "Who are you calling?"

"My friend Rachel. I need you to tell her what you said, because she's like this Broadway freak who thinks that she's the only one in the world who can sing."

Downward watched the phone until Santana realized that she was seriously distressed by it, and she put it away. "Or not. Thank you for the compliment," she said awkwardly. "If you're a fan of Brittany's I can introduce you. She loves meeting her fans."

"I'm not," the woman said abruptly, leaving it at that.

Santana could feel her pulling away. "Since you know me, it's only fair that I get to know you," she said, hurriedly, grasping at straws. "What's your name?"

Downward stands up. "It was nice to meet you, Santana."

**August 16, 2016**

As soon as Santana got out of her final, final she sent out a mass text to all of her friends: **And that's it, done. I be a NYU graduate, now. Congratulate me, bitches!**

Funnily enough, even though she was graduating three months late, it still made her just the 2nd member of the Glee club to have graduated from college. Rachel dropped out because of Funny Girl, Brittany got delayed half a year plus, Kurt took off a year to travel with Blaine, Puck was in the military, Mercedes was touring, Sam got held back a year in high school, and since Mike was doing dance and was also a student, he was on a five year graduation plan. Yeah, she might have run around like a chicken with her head cut off for a couple of months, but she'd made up for it by adding an extra class every semester, and enrolling every summer, all while holding down a job. She had actually even managed to graduate with honors: cum laude. Take that Schuester, and fuck you for thinking that I didn't have any ambition!

She wasn't taking a break now, either. The first day of classes were August 29 th , and the 13 days in between were the only break she was going to get.

She started to send the text out to all the Gleeks, plus William and Sue, but then reconsidered, taking Quinn's name off the list. Feeling that she was being childish, she sent the text a half minute later, realizing that if Quinn was with Mercedes when they got the texts, Quinn would know that she was being slighted. Fuck Quinn, Santana thought bitterly. They were back to not having sex again, and weren't really talking either. Quinn had Martin, and Santana didn't need her.

Mercedes sent an answering text back almost immediately. **Congrats, girl! Now that you're free, come finish this tour with me**.

She thought about partying, but Mercedes offer was just as good. Besides, the only people in New York were Rachel, Klaine, and Artie and, no thanks. So Santana rented a car, and met up with her in Philadelphia. Santana knew that Quinn had spent the summer with Mercedes, but what Mercedes had failed to mention was that she had convinced Quinn to sing a couple of the last numbers, so instead of it being just Santana and Mercedes on stage, it was Santana, Mercedes, and Quinn, with nothing but Mercedes and some equipment in between them. Just being that close to Quinn for the first time in months, was really too close. Santana could feel Quinn's presence; she didn't even have to look at her to know when she moved. Her eye dragged to Quinn without Santana telling them to.

In the middle of one of the songs, she chanced a look up, and saw Quinn looking at her, which wasn't fair, because she was promised to someone else.

Santana made it until Sunday night. But then they, Mercedes, Quinn, and Santana, Brittany, who had spent the summer doing background dancing, and the crew, went out drinking, and dancing, and somewhere between the Samuel Adams and F.U.N's Tonight Quinn ended up in Santana's arms, and Santana vowed never to let her go again.

But that was probably just the alcohol talking.

* * *

Santana shook her head. "Phillip was never going to be my child. I never had any intention of laying any sort of claim to him. He and Hazel were supposed to live happily ever after in Colorado, and I was supposed to go on with my life. And I did. I came back to the east coast, and forgot that somewhere out there, there was a kid with my name. I thought that would be the end of it."

* * *

**October 27, 2016**

_"H'lo?"_

_There was an intake of breath,_ and a sob, the sound of someone crying. "Santana?" It was an unknown number, and Santana didn't immediately recognize the voice, so her voice went instantly professional; despite the fact that it was 2:35 in the morning, and she doubted that she was being offered a job, but hey, it could always be Bryne.

"This is she, who is this?"

"I need you... please can you come pick me up?"

"Uh…yeah," Santana went scrambling for something to write with. "What's your address?" she wrote as the person talked. "I'll be right there."

Santana removed her gun from its box, assembled it, and slid it into her thigh holster, feeling like a douche for having it, but taking it with her nonetheless. Santana trained with the thing, knew how to assemble it, to clean it, to use it, but she wasn't a gun person. She wouldn't have even got it if it wasn't a semi-necessity; she sucked at throwing knives. She had a good idea who had made the call, but if she was wrong, she didn't want to be deadly wrong. She liked herself too much to die.

There was a shadow waiting for her inside the awning of the New Fellowship Baptist Church on Blue Hill Avenue, right outside of Franklin Park. It was wearing an overlarge hoodie, and a loose fitting pair of pants, and sandals, which made Santana wonder if they had just grabbed whatever was closest to them and dashed out of the house or if the clothing choice was calculated. Loose clothing easily meant concealed weapons. Zoning in on the figure beneath the clothes, Santana was almost positive it was Downward facing smile. She circled the building in her car, just to make sure that she wasn't driving into an ambush, before she parked the car a little ways back. She got out, locking the door as soon as she was out of the car, then clicked the key fob once, unlocking just the driver's side door.

"Hey," Santana called as she walked. Downward didn't look up, her face sufficiently hidden beneath the hood of the hoodie. If Santana hadn't been sure it was her, she wouldn't have approached her without her looking up first, but she could tell by her stance, and body type that this was Downward.

Santana approached cautiously. "Did you know that there has never been a documented case of a killer whale killing a human out in the wild?"

Downward lifted her head a little. "What?"

Santana walked closer still. "I needed to get your attention, and you still haven't told me your name, so I figured I'd sound dumb as hell asking you if you were okay since it's the middle of the night and well," she gestured. "So I went with useless trivia."

Downward looked up from beneath her hoodie, and old Santana would have recoiled and let out some stupid, unhelpful shit. Newer Santana, wasn't as easily startled. Unless it was Bryne, who she wouldn't have been surprised if she appeared suddenly at her elbow, wearing clothes the same color of the night, and yelling at her in German about not being observant enough. Santana gave a paranoid look left and right, but there was no Bryne.

"Let's have a sit down in my car."

Downward surprised her by nearly tackling her. Once Santana got over the shock, she slowly put her arm around the woman, one hand going to her hair, the other to offer a secure hand around her back. "Sssh, carino. Let's get off the street, yeah?"

Downward facing smile didn't remove her face from Santana's chest, sobbing quietly. Santana wouldn't have even realized that she was crying if it wasn't for the way her shoulders softly shook. Santana ground her teeth together, figuring out Downward was probably used to hiding her tears, bruises too, although none of these were hidden. They stood out in stark contrast against her skin, covering her face as it had been its design.

Since Downward didn't usually look so much like a punching bag, Santana figured that the attack that had caused this was more spur of the moment than usual. After all, you actually had to think about putting soap in a pillowcase; it wasn't something that could 'just happen'.

Behind the wheel of the car, securely locked in, Downward explained that it wasn't always like this, and Santana wondered did she mean the bruising, or the abuse.

"What is it usually like?" Santana questioned.

Downward bit down on her lip and hid her eyes. "Once, she was sweet."

Back at the apartment, Santana offered Downward something to sleep in, and her bed. While Downward was changing, Santana removed the gun from her waistband. Downward saw it, quietly watching her disassemble it, and put it back in the lock box. Santana could tell that she liked the piece being in pieces.

"Well, so I guess this is goodnight," Santana said. "I'll be on the couch if you need anything." Santana placed an innocuous kiss on Downward's forehead. "We'll talk in the morning. Things look better then."

Downward looked worse in the light of day. Whereas the night before Santana had to guess at the extent of the damage that this woman's 'partner'? had done, in the light she could see the full scope of it, and she wanted to bust the woman's head wide open. Who did that to someone?

"I made you coffee," she said as she walked into the kitchen. "Black. No calories. And oatmeal with flaxseed and applesauce. 120 calories."

Downward watched her, her eyes dark, and unexpressive. "I'm not anorexic."

"I didn't say you were. Just pointing out that this will fill you up, and there's very little calories involved."

It was unsettling, the way Downward's eyes followed her every move. "So I didn't get the play-by-play last night. Trip over the stairs?"

Downward grimaced. "I ran into a door."

"Those can be tricky," Santana said without humor. "Are you cold? I can get you something."

"No," she said so sharply it startled Santana. She froze where she was. "It makes me uncomfortable to have you walk behind me," Downward explained. She must have realized how that might have sounded because she paused. "Please, just stay here."

Santana sat back down. "Do I look like her?" Santana questioned, softly. Downward didn't answer. "What can I do to help?"

Tears filled the woman's eyes. "Nothing. Let me stay here for a few days?"

"A few…?" Santana frowned. "And then what?"

"And then I go."

"Go where, back? Are you kidding, did you look at yourself? I mean, sure, now you don't have to worry about your Halloween costume, but doesn't that hurt sometimes?"

"It hurts all the time."

"Then why not leave her? Do you think that this happened because you did something to deserve this? You didn't. No one deserves what she put you through. It's not love." In her mind, her Catholic upbringing played in her head. Love is patient, love is kind.

Tears welled up in Downward's eyes. "I know it's not love."

* * *

Quinn couldn't understand that, couldn't fathom it. She took Beth with her it seemed just about everywhere she went, some days. Quinn never stopped thinking about Beth, she couldn't picture how Santana, even at her most self-centered, could forget that she had a child.

"How is that even possible?"

* * *

**December 23, 2016**

_Jenna lived out in Back Bay, i_ n a single family home on Commonwealth Ave that could not have possibly been anywhere near her salary range as a tenured professor at Emerson. Santana felt at odds when she stepped inside. She, Mercedes, and Quinn had all grown up in one of the wealthier neighborhoods in Lima. Her father was a doctor, and she didn't want for much growing up, but her experience was far different from Jenna's. Although Jenna's father was in the military and he had traveled a lot, Jenna had spent a huge portion of her life in or around Boston. She had gone to private school. She had her own pony. She was wealthy, whereas Santana's family had merely had money.

Brittany wasn't similarly awed by the old fashioned grandeur of Jenna's digs. She said, "Oh pretty," and then walked up the gate. Tamara, Brittany's date for the night, merely had her face behind the blank expression she wore on it most of the time, so there was no guessing what she thought.

Jenna looked fabulous in a long, onyx, backless evening gown. She wore her hair pinned up, leaving you a perfect view of her near perfect musculature, and in case you failed to notice the curve of her back, or the dip of her cleavage, the heart and round cut diamond necklace and matching earring combination drew your eyes to remind you where you should be looking. "Baby gay!" she greeted loud enough to draw the gaze of at least a few people in the room. "Oh, and friends. Tamara, good to see you again.

"You too, Dr. Healy," Tamara said respectfully.

Jenna laughed, placing a soft hand on Tamara's arm. "You're not even one of my students, silly, call me Jenna."

No sooner than the words were spoken than a man who looked so strikingly like Jenna that they had to be related, glided over. "Pe," he pronounced it (pay) "who are your friends?"

His eyes were on Santana when he asked. "Brittany, Tamara, Santana, this is Bug, my brother, Lt. Colonel Healy, who doesn't realize he's spinning his wheels because, like every sane, good-looking woman, you three are all lady chasers."

'Bug' gave Santana a look that made her want to beat his head in. "Pity," he remarked.

"He's home on leave for the holidays," Jenna informed them. "Why don't you see if you can resurrect, Glory, Bug? She could use an escort, and she should be mingling." Jenna turned back to them. "So there's champagne, wine, and finger foods, help yourself, I've got schmoozing to do. Be my arm candy, baby gay?"

"Hey," Santana protested. "I had a birthday; I'm a year older now."

"It's not an age thing, honey, it's about knowledge of the world." Jenna held out her arm.

Santana gave Brittany a questioning look. Brittany nodded, but it didn't matter because Jenna was already whisking her off. "Welcome to my world, Santana," Jenna said as she smiled, and navigated the crowds. "Worthless people pretending to do meaningful things, while the rest of the world can do nothing else but react to the waves of change they bring."

"I guess we should all buy boats then, huh?"

Jenna smiled. "I knew we understood each other, baby gay, but not we," she corrected. "We are the waves." She waved generally. "They are the ones that need the boats."

Jenna seemed to enjoy showing Santana off, and Santana surprisingly didn't mind. Jenna made asides that reminded her a lot of the way she and Quinn would talk about people in high school, and she seemed to have a general disdain for most people. She seemed to like Santana, though, and if it were an act, Santana didn't pick up on it.

30 minutes into the evening, with just a little coaxing, Jenna convinced Santana that she should sing. Bug, a woman on his arm, was brought back to play the piano. She only got a glimpse of the woman as Santana moved over to the piano where Bug had started to play Silent Night, but when she got full into the middle of the song, Santana looked over to Jenna, and was surprised to find that she recognized the woman now standing next to her. Santana was a little surprised that she recognized her; she looked much different now that she actually looked human.

It was brief, the flicker of recognition in her eyes, but Jenna, who was watching her raptly, noticed it, and Santana noticed her give a sideways look at the woman who she was holding hands with.

Santana finished the song, and there was appreciative applause, and an expectation of doing another one, but Santana stood frozen as puzzle pieces that she didn't want to connect, fell into place. She felt her world spinning around her. "Santana," Bug whispered, smile planted on his face. "I think they'd like another. What about Baby, It's Cold Outside?"

Jenna whispered something into Downward's ear. Bug started to play. Santana felt detached from her body as she sung along with him. As soon as the song was over, she pulled away before she could get roped into another song. She needed Brittany. She needed Brittany and Tamara. They needed to go. Now. 

"Santana." Jenna's voice stopped her in her stride. Jenna was still holding on to Downward's hand. "I thought I'd introduce you to my wife," the sound of possession on Jenna's lips was strange to Santana because Jenna flirted all the time, and Jenna took girls home all the time, and she never seemed like she had someone waiting at home for her. "I thought I'd introduce you," Jenna repeated. "But it seems like you two already know each other."

"You brought her to Brittany's," Santana said without hesitation. "I remember. Though you failed to introduce me."

"Well then that was a mistake on my part. Santana this is my wife, Gloria, Gloria, Santana."

Downward…Gloria gave Santana a perfunctory glance, smiling blandly. "Nice to meet you."

Santana quickly excused herself after that. Where were Brittany and Tamara? She felt like she was going to be sick. How had she missed this? They both were at the party that night; Gloria had recoiled at the sudden sight of her, and Gloria had had trouble trusting her because she and Jenna were friends. Friends. She liked Jenna. How many times had she compared the two of them? Thought of her as herself in a few years. Oh, God.

Santana was so in her head, she startled at the feel of a hand on her back. "You're looking green there, baby gay."

"Don't touch me," Santana snapped. She knew that she was acting irrationally, but she couldn't find her calm place in the moment. She couldn't act aloof.

"Let's talk," Jenna said, steering her away from the party guests and outside.

Have you ever noticed that your body seems to be far more intelligent than your brain? Take a moment to think about it. Some people have trouble walking and talking at the same time. Sometimes you forget your keys, or leave your cell phone at home, or forget to kiss your significant other good-bye; but your body doesn't forget these things.

Take a moment to consider how much complexity your body processes every single second, of every day, or how one little glitch in your body's system, can derail everything. While we walk, and talk, and speak, valves are opening and closing, muscles are tightening, blood is flowing, hearts are beating. All without you telling it to do so because the fact is if people actually had to think to do things, if they had to make their stomachs digest, and they had to make their muscles bend and contract, they wouldn't be able to function.

But your body knows you, and it knows the world that you live in. Take when a foreign body invades your body for example. Your body is already in attack mode before you even realize that you're not feeling well. When your body is next to someone that you like, your heart starts beating faster before you even realize that another person affects your heart's rhythm. When your body senses danger, it reacts before you've even had the chance to assess the situation.

Santana thought about all of this when they stepped out onto the balcony and the door closed behind them because it wasn't until that very moment that Santana realized something that she had never, ever, stopped to take note of before: she had never been alone in Jenna's company before. She had known her for years, had been around her several times before, had done something close to flirt overtly on a couple of occasions, but she'd never been around her without other people being nearby. Santana had never seen Jenna as a threat, but her body had. It had recognized that Jenna was a danger, even when Santana hadn't.

At the close of the door, Jenna was a completely different person. "Tell me that you didn't do something really stupid with my wife," Jenna commanded.

Santana's fists clenched at her side. "Your wife. You mean the woman that you can't seem to keep your fists off of? You mean the woman that you forget in favor of getting with whatever girl I happen to be looking at? What the actual fuck, Jenna? What the hell is wrong with you?"

Jenna stared at Santana, unflinchingly. "You want to know why I call you baby gay, Santana? Because you've got a lot of growing up to do. You think you know what's going on, and that you've got a handle on things, but you really have no clue. I saw something in you. We're not that different, you and I. We both want what we want and we don't stop until we have it. Gloria is mine. She belongs to me. When she bores me, I find other entertainments, when she disobeys me, I remind her who she belongs to. I thought we understood each other."

"I'm not like you!"

Jenna laughed. "Keep telling yourself that, Santana." She winked. "Like notices like. You're upset right now because you fooled yourself. You've been condemning me as long as you didn't know who I was, but now you got a good look in the mirror and you saw yourself, didn't you? I like you, Santana. You're young, and naïve, but I still like you. Don't make me change my mind."

Santana's eyes narrowed. "Is that supposed to be a threat?"

Jenna flashed a hard smile that made her look absolutely breathtaking. Like an angel of death. "I don't make threats."

* * *

There was another quote about tears that Quinn was particularly fond of: "Guys always think tears are a sign of weakness. They're a sign of FRUSTRATION. She's only crying so she won't cut your throat in your sleep. So make nice and be grateful." Donna Barr.


	25. 8 months, 2 weeks, 2 days, part II.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've broken up the original Chapter 25 into two chapters to hopefully make things easier.

**December 31, 2016**

_Mercedes was having an album release party._ On New Year's Eve. In New York. Even if Quinn hadn't been interested in going, she didn't have a choice; Mercedes was her roommate. Also her best friend. Martin, who had come into town to spend Christmas with Quinn, decided to go home for a few days to see his family when he realized that Quinn was going to be occupied with Mercedes. The last thing Santana wanted to do after her run in with Jenna, was attend another party, but what she wanted more than anything else at the moment, was Quinn, and she didn't want to tell anyone what was bothering her, and she would have to if she didn't show up. So she went.

Santana wasn't Jenna. She wasn't. She and Quinn had slapped each other, they had gotten into fights, but they weren't that couple. Santana wouldn't put her hands on her like that. She wouldn't threaten to kill her if Quinn ever tried to leave her. If they were actually a couple, she wouldn't run around with every single person she could get her hands on, and then turn around and tell Quinn that she couldn't do the same. She wasn't Jenna.

That meant that this thing with her and Quinn…it bared some definition. Because Quinn was with Martin, and she had agreed to marry him, Santana had to let her go. They couldn't sleep together anymore. They couldn't be intimate. But she still needed her friend. So she needed to make things okay between them. They had been strictly friends once, they could be that way again. Santana had resigned herself to not being alone with Quinn, to not allow her eyes to linger, to not look too longingly, or to allow her gaze to drift into 'relationship' space, but damn if Quinn didn't make it hard.

So did Mercedes because she was busy entertaining, which meant she wasn't there to baby-sit her friends, and somehow Santana and Quinn ended up pretty much alone with the alcohol, and Santana's pre New Year's resolution to quit the drug known as Quinn Fabray.

"Hey, I didn't mean what I said about, you know, 'fucking and leaving'," Santana said, two shots into the night. "This thing that we've been doing-,"

Quinn quickly cut her off. "I get it, Santana."

"Do you?" Santana wondered, "because I don't. You're my friend, Quinn. And if we're hurting each other, I don't want to. I don't want to ever hurt you."

Quinn did that thing where she stared hard, unblinking eyes at Santana, looking at her more intensely than Santana ever thought possible. "I don't want to hurt you either."

"So," Santana tossed her hand out. "Friends?"

"Always," Quinn agreed, shaking on it. And if she held on to her hand slightly longer than necessary, Santana pretended that she didn't notice. They smiled at each other, and sipped on their alcoholic-mixed dreams, and idly moved to the music that was playing in the background: songs from Mercedes new CD.

"I'm so proud of her," Santana said to the air.

Quinn nodded. "Me too."

They both nodded, this song in particular was a dance beat. It begged for bodies to come out onto the dance floor. "Do you want to-,"

"Fuck it, friends dance, right?"

They both slammed down a Jägerbomb each, and Quinn pulled Santana into the room where their guests were dancing. Santana easily cleared a space for the two of them, and they danced, very friendly, around each other. The way their eyes kept meeting, wasn't so friendly, but they kept space for Jesus between them. The way Santana's eyes fell down to Quinn's hips, and Quinn's eyes kept looking at Santana's lips, that wasn't friendly either, but there was still two feet between them. When fingers brushed against hips, that could have been friendly, but there was still enough room for them to not be sharing the same air. Practically.

Seemingly from out of nowhere, a bottle of a devilishly tantalizing green liquid appeared when they went back into the kitchen. It seemed to be looking at them, begging them to open it. "We shouldn't," Santana said.

"No," Quinn agreed. "We've already been drinking Jäger and you're not, like supposed to mix grains, or something." She wasn't sure what the rules of drinking were, they always seemed to get fuzzy at this time, and didn't seem to clear up until she was nursing a hangover and suddenly she remembered such ditties like 'whiskey before beer, and you're in the clear'.

But on this side of the hangover, it was always hard to remember. And Quinn was sure the bottle was glowing at them. She was sure it had a life of its own. She was sure that it was telling her that whatever she was looking for out of life, she wouldn't find it within its glass depths, but if she just wanted a little bit of a good time, well that's what it was there for. "Just a shot," was said, neither was sure by who, and really, what did it matter who said it, especially once that psychedelic liquid was burning down both of their throats? They looked at each other, and grinned from the bite of the liquor.

"Shit!" Santana cursed. Or was it Quinn? A wicked grin appeared on Santana's face. "Want to do another?"

They filled shot glasses and toasted, "To Mercedes, to the New Year, to…-,"

"Us-," Santana finished. "To starting the way you mean to go on."

So here's a professional drinking tip: never mix absinthe, unrequited love, and Jäger. It's just not a good idea. Add in fast, catchy, music, low lighting, and a crowd of people…and, well, Quinn and Santana forgot to leave room for Jesus the next time they danced. And if the combination made Santana kind of clingy, Quinn didn't seem too bothered by it. She clung to Santana the whole night, and growled, actually growled, at some poor girl who actually had the audacity to step into Santana's personal space when Quinn had gone to the kitchen to get them both another drink. The best thing about Quinn, Santana thought at the sight, was having a girl who actually became the green-eyed monster when she was jealous.

They'd left the party after that, Quinn dragging her up to her bedroom. It was too hot with their clothes on, which was the only reason why they started shedding the articles, tossing them casually on the floor. "I missed you," was said, and repeated, by both of them, more than a dozen times before they managed to get each other naked. "No, like I really missed you," Santana stressed.

Quinn nodded her head, as if Santana hadn't said anything unusual. "I know. It's just not right without you." 'It' could have been Friday nights, 'it' could have been sex, or time, or even life in its entirety. No matter, whatever 'it' was it simply wasn't without the other.

It was such the right thing to say because it was true. They were made for each other.

Hours later, exhausted and still not sober, they both were kind of zoning in and out. Santana was holding Quinn so tightly that it was as if she feared someone would run into the room and snatch her away, and Quinn wasn't protesting.

"Remember that time in eighth grade, when we were playing truth or dare, and Puck dared you to kiss me, and you wouldn't?"

"I was an idiot. Remember at Nationals' when we snuck off in the middle of the night, and we got that homeless guy to buy us Tanqueray because we thought it was sophisticated, but we didn't have a chaser?"

"Remember when you almost got us arrested because you wouldn't stop mouthing off to the cop who pulled us over."

Quinn gasped. "That's not fair! He was an asshole!"

"He was a cop!"

"Do you remember…?" Santana realized that she'd dozed off in the middle of her sentence and laughed. God, she was plastered. She checked the clock. "Hey babe, we missed the countdown. Quinn? You awake?" She got no response. Santana leaned over and kissed Quinn twice, once on each closed eyelid. "Do you remember the day I fell in love with you?" Santana sighed. "I kind of want to do this forever. I could really see that." Her eyes closed and her head started to droop. "I love you, Quinn. Happy New Year."

**January 8, 2017**

_Day 7_

"Hey, Quinn, it's Santana. I know you must be busy, and just haven't had a chance to call me back, so I was just calling to remind you. We should get together more. I miss you, babe."

**January 9, 2017**

_Day 8_

"Is it too late for us to have that talk about the future? Call me back, Fabray. I want to hear your voice!"

**January 10, 2017**

_Day 9_

Santana checked her cell phone for a text that wasn't there. She stared down morosely into the depths of her drink. "Ever been in love?" Santana questioned. The bartender, paused in front of Santana. She gave a kind of jerk of her red head which could have meant anything.

"A time or two."

"It sucks," Santana said.

**January 18, 2017**

Day 17

It was official: Quinn was avoiding her. No calls, not one; no texts. Santana had stopped leaving voicemails, stopped calling, but she couldn't help sending the texts. Random bits of nothing, as if she didn't know that Quinn was avoiding her. Santana couldn't even pretend that she wasn't. Quinn had even went out of her way to sign out of Skype when Santana was on. She thought she was being paranoid, but she tested it. She took her laptop over to Brittany's one day and told Brittany to call and talk to Quinn, but not to tell her that she was over. Brittany did, and while they were talking, Santana had signed on. Sure enough Quinn went invisible less than a minute later, while still on the call with Brittany. How childish, how fucking childish, and how Quinn.

Santana wanted to think that it had nothing to do with the fact that she had I love you, but she could come to no other satisfying conclusion other than Quinn had been awake when she'd said it. Quinn had wanted honesty from Santana, but then when she gave it to her, she disappeared on her. Well fuck her, Santana was done with her.

**January 21, 2017**

Day 20

Santana blinked at the sight of the sun, feeling like absolute shit. She felt so much worse than just being hung over. She just wanted her home, and her bed, and her Quinn, and a long, long shower, and a hot toddy, and to sleep for a really, really long time. At the moment, she didn't care about school, or her friends, or anything, she just wanted to let go. She dialed Quinn's number. Voicemail. "Quinn, it's Santana. I just had like the worst possible few days of my life, and I could really, really do with the sound of your voice. You can go back to not talking to me tomorrow, but please call me back, tonight. Please."

Santana called back a few seconds later, not to leave another message, but just to hear the sound of Quinn's voice in her voicemail.

**January 22, 2017**

Day 21

_2:00 a.m._

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Santana was instantly alert. Box out. Gun assembled. She rolled the hem of her sleep shorts, tucked her gun to the left of her spine, tiptoed to the door, and checked the peephole. Shit! She exhaled. With a sigh she opened the door.

Bryne pushed through as soon as she had the space to. "Did you get arrested this weekend?" she demanded. She didn't pause, but her eyes flickered over Santana, taking in every part of Santana that didn't look as it should. Bryne was speaking English which meant that Santana was really in trouble.

"Ja."

"Why didn't you call me?"

"I wasn't able to."

Bryne glowered, mistaking Santana's remark as being flippant. "What do you mean you weren't able to?" Bryne demanded. "It's common sense, Santana. You get pinned, you call me. Period."

"It means I wasn't able to," Santana repeated. She removed her gun, started to dissemble it, but Bryne stopped her. "If I were you, I'd keep that out."

Bryne didn't make idle threats, so Santana listened, but honestly she just wanted her to go away. Santana had been spending every second since she'd been released from lock-up trying very hard not to think, and now Bryne would be demanding questions. She picked up the nearly empty bottle of tequila that was sitting out on the table, and took a hard swallow. She slumped onto the couch. "I would have called you if I could have, but I wasn't given the opportunity. I got drunk at a bar, got jumped and apparently knocked out because when I came to, I was handcuffed to a hospital bed. I was released from the hospital into police custody, and escorted to the police station. They held me for 36 hours, then they arrested me, I was arraigned, I had a bail hearing, and then it was all dismissed with the court's apologies. I was never given any opportunity to make a phone call."

Bryne stopped her pacing, and looked at Santana. "Someone did a power play on you? Who'd you piss off?"

"Remember that girl in the park?"

"There are a lot of…oh the one getting beat up by the cop?"

"Yes, only she's not with a cop. Her brothers-in-law are the ADA and the Deputy Commissioner." Santana started to shake. "And her father is my best friend's commanding officer."

"That sounds like the Healys."

Santana nodded. "It is. Jenna Healy." Santana still felt sick about the whole thing. Not to mention the whole physical pain of it as well. Santana had held her own, but she'd been outnumbered. Granted that a woman who routinely beat up her partner was unlikely to play fair, Santana still couldn't believe that Jenna wouldn't just try to attack her, herself, but then again, Santana would have no doubt killed her in a one on one fight.

"What made her come after you?"

"I confronted her about it over Christmas, and I told Gloria that she really needs to leave her a few days ago, so maybe it was to remind me to mind my own business." Bryne touched the stitches on Santana's forehead, just above the hairline. "She said she won't leave because Jenna will try to kill her if she does."

"Do you think that she really would?" Bryne questioned curiously, though her voice professionally detached.

"She sounded like it."

"Yeah, but people say that all the time. I'm asking do you really, honestly think that she'd try to kill her?"

"I don't think Jenna makes idle threats. Can't you, like, make her go away?" Santana mumbled.

Bryne gave Santana a hard, unblinking stare. Today her eyes were green. "I need to think," she said. She grabbed Santana's face firmly. "The next time a cop even comes within five feet of you, you call me. You call me and you leave the phone on. Verstehst du?"

"Ja. I understand."

"Good." Bryne said. And then she walked out.

_5:01 p.m._

Santana nearly laughed at the sight of Downward, Gloria, because it appeared that they were twins. "I've been calling you all weekend. I've been worried out of my mind! What the hell happened?" Gloria demanded. She apparently didn't find the situation half as amusing. "I don't think we're allowed to play together anymore," Santana said somberly.

**February 1, 2017**

_Day 31_

12:01. a.m.

 **Santana:** **Happy Birthday, Quinn.**

**February 14, 2017**

Day 44

Santana had a running commentary going through her head, " _I will not call Quinn, I will not call Quinn_.” Too bad that mantra didn't consist of her not thinking about Quinn, and Martin, and how they were spending their first engaged Valentine's Day together. Instead when it got late enough, she headed to a bar. She hated Valentine's Day. She always seemed to be alone, and if she wasn't, she was always in the arms of some nobody who she was unlikely to ever call back.

Santana's cell phone went off as she was letting herself into her apartment. She connected the call. "Hello?"

"Is this Santana Lopez?"

Santana sighed. Conversations never started out well when those words were uttered. "Yes, this is Santana. Who's this?" Santana listened to the voice on the other end. "Okay, I'll be right there, thank you so much for calling."

Santana hung up and dialed Bryne's number. "Gloria was apparently just admitted to the Beverly Hospital outside of Ipswich. I'm heading there now."

Santana checked in at the lobby and got the room number that Downward was in. Luckily, the hospital wasn't at capacity so even though Downward was in a double, she was alone in the room. Santana steeled herself for what she would see when she entered the room, but still it was surprising.

"I brought you a teddy bear," Santana said, softly from the doorway. Gloria refused to look at Santana. Santana pulled the chair up next to her bed, lifting her hand, and holding it in hers. "Rough sex get out of control?" Gloria looked away. "Sorry, sweetie, you just…don't normally look like raw hamburger when I see you."

It took two minutes, but Gloria looked back at Santana, and she'd never seen someone look so sad, and lost, and alone. "She wants a family," Gloria explained. "I told her that I didn't want to have a kid with her. She didn't like that very much."

Jenna had really worked her over. Santana couldn't imagine someone making a 40 minute drive in her condition; they had stitched up one eye, and she could barely see out the other. Not to mention the broken bones in her hand. The bruising to her ribs. It took Santana less than a minute to work out why Gloria was in a hospital, here, and not closer to Boston. Santana hated to think how many times Gloria had had to go to a hospital outside of the city so she didn't have to worry about running into someone she knew, and they wouldn't get the chance to question her on how often she came in. "This has to stop, Gloria. This can't keep going on."

"It can't?" Gloria said sarcastically. "Damn, I was having so much fun. I was hoping for a broken leg next, you know one of those full body casts? Isn't plaster the new black?"

"That's not funny."

"No," she agreed. "It's not. But what am I supposed to do? You got a taste of what she's capable of. You know what will happen if I don't go home? I've tried to leave her before, and you see where I am right now! She's never going to let me leave! I'd rather die than stay, and it seems like my only two options are to die at her hands, or die at my own. She will kill me if I try to leave again, and we both know it. She doesn't make idle threats."

Santana momentarily looked away, thinking about the fear and humiliation of being wounded and spending three days in jail. No, Jenna didn't make idle threats. Downward's next words brought Santana's gaze back to her own. "I'm pregnant."

If Santana felt a sense of dread at those words, she could only imagine what Downward must have felt. "She doesn't know," Gloria answered before Santana could ask. "I faked my period last month."

"How far…?"

"December 22nd."

"Some Christmas gift," Santana remarked. "And her Valentine's Day one wasn't much better. I hate to say this, but your girlfriend has horrible tastes in gifts."

Santana's attempt to keep it light weren't working today. "I don't want a kid," Gloria cried. "I don't want a kid with her. Who knows what she'd do to it? And how could I even love them knowing that it's part hers? That it could come out looking like her?" Downward started crying in earnest now. "What am I supposed to do now?"

Santana didn't know. She wished she did because she hated this, and it wasn't even happening to her.

"We'll figure something out," Santana promised, giving her hand a squeeze.

"I was a debutante. I went to Mrs. Porter's. I graduated from Princeton! This wasn't supposed to be my life!"

Santana's eye moved from the bruises, to her broken collarbone, to her wrapped ribs. Santana kicked off her shoes, and being very, very careful not to jar her, climbed into the bed, so that she could hold her. "I know honey."

"She wasn't like this at first, and if I'd known I never would have talked to her." Santana could second that sentiment. "We'll figure something out; I promise."

"Will you stay with me," Downward questioned. "Just for the night?"

"Of course, sweetie," Santana said.

**February 16, 2017**

_Day 46_

Santana's lip curled at the name that flashed on her phone. "What do you want," Santana demanded.

"Where is she?" Jenna demanded.

"You've got nerve, Jenna. Like who the fuck does that to someone?"

"Things got a little out of control."

"Out of control?" Santana nearly screeched. "Do you want the laundry list of what you did? She could barely see and she drove 40 minutes like that to get to a hospital. She has a broken collarbone. Her eye and lip required stitches. She,"

"I didn't mean…she told me she doesn't want to start a family with me."

"Do you blame her?"

"That's all we used to talk about doing. About getting old, together, and having kids, and taking care of them, and now she doesn't. Do you know how hard I had to convince my brother, who doesn't ever intend to have kids, to donate sperm? Do you know how hard I worked to have my dad finally accept us? I thought we were in the same place about this. We talked…and it just hurt, and I got angry, and one thing led to another, and I lost control. You know how that is, Santana," Jenna pleaded with her. "You have this plan, and then when things start to go wrong, you'll do anything to keep it together, even though you shouldn't be doing it. I love her. I love her so much. She's my world. I'd fall apart without her. Please, Santana. At least let me apologize to her."

Santana understood losing control. Of trying to put something together, and it all collapsing in your face. God, her and Quinn's back and forth was all about trying, and failing, but wanting. That wanting. "She doesn't want you anywhere near her. She hates you! She told me she'd rather die than be with you. You really, really hurt her, Jenna."

Santana heard sobbing. "I know! It won't happen ever, ever again."

There was a long, hard silence on the phone. The one that contains regret, and remorse, and very bad decisions.

"She's at the hospital in Beverly."

**February 18, 2017**

_Day 48_

Yesterday had been a busy, painful, day for Santana. She'd spent it with Brittany, who wanted to go ring shopping because apparently she wanted to propose to Tamara.

"Don't you think it's kind of early for that?" Santana had questioned.

"We might not have been dating long, but I've known her for two years, now, and I'm crazy about her, San. I realized that on Valentine's Day. And you know what Beyoncé says: If you like it, you should have put a ring on it."

Save for the occasional hook-up, Santana and Brittany had just been good friends for the past three years, but still, she wasn't ready for it. Especially since someone else had put a ring on her girl's finger, and just like Johnny Come Lately, Santana had dropped the 'I Love You' after Quinn had already said yes, and now they weren't talking.

They went to three different jewelry stores, and Santana listened to every different way that Brittany was thinking about proposing, though the obvious option was proposing while they were on the show. After a day of being completely surrounded by other, much happier people, Santana had pretty much crashed into her bed.

Now she was being woken way too early in the morning, by her phone going off. Because no good things came before her cup of coffee, especially when unknown phone numbers were calling you, she didn't anticipate this being anything good. She cringed when she answered the phone.

"Hello?"

"Is this Santana Lopez?" A very official voice demanded.

"This is she? Who's this?"

"My name is Officer Danby with the Massachusetts State police-"

"One second." Santana moved over to her laptop, switched the webcam on, and pushed the speaker. "What can I do for you officer?"

"Ms. Lopez, I'm calling because the Beverly Hospital has you listed as the emergency contact for a Gloria Anderson."

"That's right."

"I'm calling because it appears that you were the last person to be in contact with Ms. Anderson, and I'm afraid there's been an accident. We were hoping that you would be able to help in us locating her next of kin."

"Is she okay?"

"It was a high collision impact, ma'am," the officer said gently. "Do you know who we need to get in touch with?"

"Her wife's name is Jenna Healy. What does that mean?"

"It's not the kind of accident that someone walks away from."

**Santana (10:00 p.m.): Where are you?**

**Bryne (10:01 p.m.): I do have an actual job, you know. I'm in Vancouver.**

**Santana (10:15 p.m.): Gloria's dead.**

**February 25, 2017**

Day 55

Santana hated funerals. Without meaning to, she thought back to Finn's. Whatever their personal feelings for each other, he was only 19 years old, and that was just too young to die. Even still it's hard to imagine that he's dead. The worst part of the whole thing wasn't her grief; it'd been Rachel's. Santana had pretty much seen to every minor thing that she had needed during that time because otherwise Rachel wouldn't have kept functioning. So Santana had made her meals, had set out clothes for her, did her hair, had even gotten into the shower with her, twice, to bathe her because she hadn't done it herself.

It wasn't a small funeral. The domestic partner of a university professor with the kind of pull that Jenna Halsey had? Gloria would have been pleased to know that she'd had this much support out there. Santana spent the whole funeral glaring at the back of Jenna's head. This was her fault. There were skid marks on the road, as if maybe there had been another car involved that had run off, but the odds of that person ever getting caught: nil. It was an empty, back stretch of road, and there were no witnesses. Besides, although there wasn't enough tissue to do a toxicology test, her doctors could vouch that a) she had been discharged against recommendation, and b) she had drugs in her system that would alter her state of mind and impair her driving skills.

It was ruled an accidental death, and Jenna had probably pulled as many strings as possible in order for it not to be ruled a suicide, so she could collect on whatever insurance policy that she had on her, and to have the 'm' word not even considered so Jenna wouldn't be looked at as the prime suspect.

There was no coffin because Jenna had her cremated. It fit, because Gloria's body had been reduced to a burnt corpse. They'd had to go by dental records to positively I.D. her. That, the place where the accident had taken place, the VIN of the car, and the skeleton matched against X-Rays, even down to a pin that Gloria had in her arm, had left irrefutable proof that this was Gloria Anderson. She'd gotten 11 years longer than Finn, but 30 was still too young to die.

**February 27, 2017**

_Day 57_

Santana stared at herself in the mirror, before washing the blood off of her hands. God, the way Jenna's face looked when she'd punched her. It was stupid to get in a fight with a 'widow' two days after the funeral, but Santana couldn't help it. She had just raged, letting her anger at the betrayed trust get to her, and she couldn't stop thinking about all of the times that she'd hit Gloria, and now Gloria's life was over because of her.

Jenna hadn't fought back, other than to protect herself. And thinking about that now, made Santana feel sick. If she got arrested this time, she deserved it. Only she knew she wouldn't.

**March 5, 2017**

_Day 63_

Santana checked the street number one last time before she knocked on the door. She let two seconds pass and then she knocked again. Santana let out a relieved breath when a timid voice stated, "I'm not accepting any deliveries."

"Great, I've got nothing to deliver," Santana responded back, and the door was opened. Santana was nearly knocked off of her feet at the force of Downward plowing into her.

"Er…Hi," Santana said. She gave a glance around before she stepped past Downward to go inside of the house, pulling Downward back inside. "How are you?"

Enough time had passed that the bruises were yellowing and healing, but she'd need to be in the sling for a couple more weeks. She looked different. She was a blonde now, and though it had only been a few days, she was already noticeably a few pounds heavier. Weight loss or gain was one of the best disguises a person could have. "As good as I could be, given the circumstances," Downward responded. "How are things?"

"You're death was ruled accidental. I've got a detective friend, Stef, who's keeping an ear out, and he'll notify me if anything pops up. Jenna's really sorry about what happened."

"I'll bet," Downward mumbled. "So that's it, then?"

Santana nodded. "I'll be here with you for Spring Break, and then I'll come back once the school year ends, and I'll stay until the baby's born."

"Hazel," Downward mumbled. "Do I look like a fucking Hazel to you?"

"It doesn't matter what you look like, it matters who's life you can co-op, and lucky for you, no one's looking for a Hazel Phillips, Hazel."

"Lucky me."

**May 14, 2017**

Day 133

Santana spent her first day of summer break in Los Angeles. Well, more accurately, Santana spent her first day of summer break _getting_ to Los Angeles, and sleeping the trip off in the hotel. She wondered what Quinn was doing.

**May 15, 2017**

Day 134

Santana spent the second day of summer vacation on a train from Union Station to Denver, and after a 21 hour train ride, she had another 4 and a half hours on an Amtrak bus to endure. Although it would have been a million times easier to have just taken a plane ride, you didn't actually have to show ID to ride the Amtrak. You could also buy a train ticket with a burner credit card. Santana doubted she was being followed, but she was playing it safe, anyway.

**May 16, 2017**

Day 135

Santana tried not to notice how lonely Hazel looked when she picked her up from the bus station. Hazel greeted her like she was an old friend, wrapping her arms tightly around her. She looked pregnant, now. She hadn't ballooned out, but you could definitely tell. "So you're going to keep…it?"

"Him. I think so," Hazel responded. "I never thought I'd be a mother, and I definitely never thought I'd be a mother alone, but here we are."

**June 30, 2017**

Day 180

Santana came home from her temporary summer job, seeking Hazel out. "Hey, Haze?"

Hazel came…wobbling, (really there was no other word for it) into the front room. It had been a very long day for Santana, and she was kind of cranky, but she meant to say this. It'd been on her mind for a while, and besides she felt like Hazel was her responsibility, now. "Yea?" Hazel questioned.

"You don't have to…do this alone." Santana bit on her inner cheek. It'd been more than six months. Quinn was probably already married to Martin for all she knew. She had to accept that she and Quinn were never going to end up together. This decision wasn't about moving on, not really. This was about sacrifice and helping a friend. "If you want me to be here, I can be."

Hazel just kind of stared, but Santana knew that she understood what Santana was saying.

**September 14, 2017, 1:33 a.m.**

_Day 256_

Santana felt herself being shaken awake. "What?" Santana whined.

"Santana?"

She nodded, without fully awaking or opening her eyes. "Yep?"

"My water just broke," Hazel said.

"You should call the plumber, then." Santana rolled back over, shutting her eyes. Wait, her sleepy mind wondered, don't broken pipes mean something?

Her eyes opened, finding Hazel looking fearful, but at the same time strangely calm. With Hazel not panicking, Santana didn't either. "Okay. So, how do you feel? Any contractions?"

"No."

"What color was the fluid?"

"Mostly clear."

Santana mentally went through the things that she'd read in her father's books, what she'd researched online and what Hazel's doctor had said. Pregnancy wasn't an emergency, it was natural, it would happen with or without help, so there was no need for panic. "Okay, so, we make sure that your bag is packed. And we alert your OBGYN, and the hospital to have a room prepared, and then we wait. Want to try going back to sleep?"

Hazel didn't object. While Hazel went and laid down, Santana checked the bag to make sure that everything was good, and put it in the car before she called Noah and joined Hazel in bed. They both managed to sleep until about 6:00, when Hazel woke up to contractions. They were 15 minutes apart, but they decided to go to the hospital anyway. Santana brought her gaming system because she was nearly positive that they weren't going to admit her, and she was right.

"So, Ms. Lopez," Santana questioned lazily. "You pick out a name for the kid?" Hazel gave her a sideways 'really' look. Santana smiled. "Breathe," she instructed.

Hazel huffed out a breath. "Hazel's last name is Phillips right?"

"Was, yeah."

"I like Phillip. Jacob."

Santana wondered if it was intentional, that the baby had Jenna's same initials. Santana reached for Hazel's hand.

"I'm scared," Hazel whispered.

"That's okay; the important thing is that you're not alone. Puck's on his way here, too, so you'll have two hands to squeeze the hell out of, and you just have to remember that you're not alone."

Hazel did the opposite of what Santana wanted: she started to cry. Santana switched hands, moving the one that was holding Hazel's to around her shoulder, and holding her hand now with her right. "I can always stay," Santana offered, again. Hazel didn't say anything, large drops just falling down her face.

They still hadn't been admitted when Hazel complained about being hungry, so Santana went and got them both something to eat. By the time they had finished, Puck had arrived, looking care-worn and tired the way an anxious dad might look. "Hey, so does this mean that I won the bet?"

"What bet?"

"This counts as knocking you up, right?"

Santana punched him. But then she hugged him, and gave him a kiss on the forehead. "Don't let anyone ever tell you you're not a good guy, Noah."

He shuffled his feet. "Except this now makes two kids that I've fathered and haven't taken care of."

"No, this makes you the really cool uncle who donated the sperm to give two lesbians a child that they really loved. Only…it's not your sperm."

Hazel wasn't admitted until around 12:00, but from there things seemed to happen really quickly. Well, if three hours and sixteen minutes was considered quick, but at the end of it there was a mucous-y, screaming baby with a healthy set of lungs on it. And Puck cried because he was thinking back to the day that he gave up Beth, and Santana was feeling some kind of way because when the doctor handed Hazel the baby she had said, "Congratulations, Mrs. Lopez. You have a son." And because that son was now named Phillip Jacob Lopez.

When both Phillip and Hazel were sleep, Santana snuck out of the building to make a phone call. Not to Bryne, that call would come later. She dialed digits she hadn't dialed in months. Surprised when Quinn actually picked up the phone for the first time in eight months, and two weeks. Santana, who hadn't been expecting it, didn't know what to say. "Hi."

"Hey."

Santana smiled sadly, because just that one word was so beautiful to her.

"How was your day?"

"There's something I need to tell you-,"

"Martin and I called off the engagement."

There was silence as the two of them tried to navigate the words that each had spoken. _I have a son_ , died on Santana's lips. "Why?"

"It just didn't feel right," Quinn answered. "What'd you have to tell me?"

Santana gave a forced laugh. "Just that I miss that ass. I was wondering when it was going to come warm my bed again. I'm sorry about Martin," Santana lied.

Quinn chuckled. "When it's not meant to be, it's not meant to be. "Mercedes is looking into moving to Boston. Maybe we can get together when I come down."

"Okay," Santana agreed.

**September 16, 2017**

8 months, 2 weeks, 2 days.

When Santana's plane touched down at Logan, she reminded herself that she was only in town to check in with her advisor, because although she had paid her tuition, and had gotten permission to do some 'independent study' at the University of Colorado-Boulder, the school year had started and she had yet to attend a lecture, so she just wanted to make sure that everything was okay, and to check on her apartment, and the fact that Quinn was going to be in the city too? Well life was full of little coincidences, wasn't it?

She wasn't trying to rekindle anything that had anything to do with feelings with Quinn. These 258 days had taught Santana something. She and Quinn were friends who shared a sexual chemistry, but nothing else. Whether there was a Martin or not, they would never be anything more to each other than that, and Santana had responsibilities now. She had the kind of responsibilities that you couldn't walk away from.

She kept this in the back of her mind when she opened the door of her apartment, and saw Quinn standing on the other side. Quinn looked like a vision, she looked like perfection. For a few seconds, or maybe a minute, or maybe an hour, they just stared at each other, before they hugged. When Quinn tried to kiss her, Santana pulled away.

"San?" Quinn questioned, surprised. "Something wrong?"

"I don't want to talk," Santana said clearly. Wanting anything more than what she had was when disaster happened. "That isn't what this is about."

Quinn blinked. "Then we won't talk."

Quinn pulled her into Santana's bedroom. The sex was formulaic, it was mechanical, it was mind numbing, but it wasn't magical, or special, it was just two people who happened to be great at having sex with each other. Santana didn't let herself stay in the bed past the time it took her to collect herself. She turned her back on Quinn, and sought out her clothing. "This is all I want," Santana said. "Nothing else."

Quinn thought that was perfect, because she didn't have anything else to give.


	26. The Thing you Do

Yes, there were different levels of tears. There was a special tear that you cried when you're 16, and had to give up your child, when the father of your child, the same man that Santana was saying fathered her child, looked at you for that first time after you two realized that you were both parents, but didn't have a child. And then you remembered something. Puck, while probably being the only male in the world Santana would ever, ever have sex with (and not because of attraction or for satisfaction, but solely because the two were horn dogs, and they had extended 'helping hands' to each other in the past), could not mistakenly get a woman pregnant.

There was a whole complete set of tears one cried at that realization. Those were the tears that fell from your eyes because you remembered in that moment that your wife really was a superhero, and you were being stupid for thinking that a woman who was once your best friend would ever keep something like that from you.

"Santana," Quinn said. "Don't be stupid. Puck got a vasectomy after Beth was born. I've also explored every inch of your body extensively and I have never come across any close to resembling a stretch mark, you lucky bitch, so please explain how you could have a child."

Santana almost wanted to cry herself, because Quinn was just so beautiful, and the two of them had traveled all over the world to get to this point but here they were right now. And it didn't seem like, this time, either of them were going to leave. "Like I said before, Phillip is _technically_ mine. I have a legal claim to him, but the only thing that makes Phillip mine is that piece of paper you're holding in your hand." And invested emotions, but they weren't talking about that right now.

Quinn frowned. "Santana I am being patient, but I really need to understand this."

"I didn't give birth to a child; I committed a felony."

If Quinn had a scale of the things that she expected Santana to say, the words that she had just uttered had ranked nowhere even close to the list. It was a non-sequitur, it just didn't follow. She was all prepared to react to the things that Santana hadn't said, and so it took her a moment to adjust herself to what she had. "What?"

"Insurance fraud, falsifying government documents, tampering with evidence, possibly murder, and kidnap, depending on how shit falls if it comes to head."

Again, not what Quinn was expecting to hear, so she just repeated her question: "What?"

"A homeless junkie named Hazel Phillips passed away in Philadelphia around the same time that 'Hazel' needed to disappear. So the death certificate magically disappeared, and 'Hazel' assumed her identity. When Phillip was born, their last names both became Lopez for the sake of authenticity."

Quinn's mind was processing slowly, but still it processed. It felt like it had been running miles in just the past few seconds, but she could at least make deductions. "Like she's in WITSEC? Are you a Witness Security agent? A federal marshal? Is that what you couldn't tell me?"

Santana paused, and almost, almost smiled, but then she scowled. "No. You only qualify for WITSEC if you have information that the Feds want. You know like if you dime on a mob boss, or you have information about a drug lord, something like that. It's essentially to protect criminals from worse criminals. But if you're someone who needs to disappear completely because you're up against people that are simply too powerful, like your husband is a police officer or something, then you're just screwed. 'Hazel' needed to disappear, so she did. Since she's nobody, though, she didn't have insurance. We used mine. It sends up all kinds of red flags if 'Santana Lopez' gave birth, but the name 'Santana Lopez' isn't put in the place where Mother goes, so I became a mom."

"And Puck?"

"He was there the day that Phil was born. He was the one to fill out the paper work. We do everything together, so it just made sense that we would do this. The plan was for Hazel to stay in Colorado, and start over, but she just couldn't handle being in such a drastically different environment where no one knew who she really was, so she moved back here. She gained weight, dyed her hair, had a nose job and her jaw realigned. I was already helping to support her, but I guess she needed emotional support as well, so I go over every couple of days or weeks to visit. When Phil started talking, he called me mama, and I thought it would only strengthen the story, so we never made him stop. I'm his legal mother, but Hazel has custody, and it never sank in for me that there was ownership being transferred with that word that Phil uttered. I didn't mention him to you, because I'm not used to thinking about him, about them, unless I'm with them. I don't consider him my son because even though he's technically mine, I don't think of him that way for Hazel's sanity."

"What does that mean?"

"She's gone through hell and back. The last thing she needs to worry about is the idea of me thinking of her son as mine, because in theory I could always take him away from her and there's nothing she could do about it without risking people finding out. I don't have pictures of him, because there aren't pictures of him, except for the pictures Hazel takes with a disposable camera that she develops herself. Our friends don't know about him because they don't live in the same world that I do. They don't understand that secrets can mean the difference between life and death.

"That's why I got onto Phil when he said something about keeping something from mommy, because say some stranger offers him candy and asks him questions, and tells him not to tell. That just gives a PI enough time to find a way in. It reduces the amount of time that I have to go into action."

"But what's suddenly changed between you and her? Why does Hazel want you to be more in his life?" Quinn questioned. "Why now? Because we got married?"

"When Hazel was still pregnant, I offered. I offered to be there full time, to be the other mother, but she shut that down." Santana merely sped over those words, but for Quinn they were a gut check because Santana knew that Quinn might marry Martin, but Quinn didn't know that Santana had seriously considered playing house with someone. She had been a hair's width away from losing Santana and had never known.

"He's getting older, and the older he gets the more questions he's going to ask. I also think she wants more because I think that she's close to breaking. She didn't grow up this way; she imagined a very different future for herself. So she's upset, and she's tired of me being bossy, which I try so hard not to be, but whenever I'm around, I worry. And there's this element, too, that sees this kid, with my name, and that my money is helping to raise, and I want a say in how he's raised. I want him to be happy, and healthy, and well prepared for life, and-,"

"You want to have a claim to him?"

Santana gave an involuntary jerk. "I guess so." There was a pause, as the words had a chance to settle with Santana. "I guess that that's never stuck with me before because I have no romantic attachment to his mom, so I don't feel like I should be able to be there. Family is one of the most important things in the world to me; I've always wanted a relationship like the one that my parents, or my abuelo and abuela, had. I know it sounds uncool, but I want the family, and the kids, and I want that with someone who shares my heart.

"At the time that Phillip was born, I was willing to give up on that ever happening, because I left all of that behind the day I showed off in that bar. But even when you leave things behind, that doesn't stop you from wanting it; I still want it. I didn't realize how much that I would have to give up until I got a taste of what it looks like to have it. Being with you is the best thing I've ever known. You drive me so utterly insane, Fabray, but you make me happy. You honestly make me happy, Quinn. At the time of New York, I was feeling really isolated, and spent emotionally, and feeling so far from what you wanted, that I just couldn't handle the idea of being someone else for someone to lean on.

"I am confident. I am strong. I can subdue a man twice my size. I can do a fireman's carry for 52 ft. I can disarm an assailant, I can swim from Boston Harbor to the Piers Park Sailing Center. I am pretty, and I can sing, and I'm smart, and sometimes I don't feel like I'm any of those things. Sometimes I get scared and need to be held, or feel like the world is on my shoulders, and I need someone to help me carry just a little bit of it."

Santana thought of it in TV terms. "Like, I'm Jane Rizzoli yeah, but sometime she just needs Maura to be there for her and remind her that things are going to be okay." Santana sniffed. "And that there is always a time for fashion. Even at crime scenes."

"Santana-," Quinn said. Santana watched as Quinn put the birth certificate back into the book. "Come here," she instructed. Santana slowly covered the distance between them. Quinn held the book out for her to take. She took her hand and gave Santana a pitying look. "There's no way on this earth that you are as bad ass as Jane Rizzoli. And birth certificates should go in safes, not in Dr. Seuss look alike books."

"People break into safes. Have you ever heard of someone breaking into a book case? And what do you mean I'm not as bad ass?"

"She shot herself through the stomach to prevent a bad guy from getting to Maura. And Frankie."

"Well I…," she frantically searched for something that would one up that statement. "I make the good girls go bad," she delivered with a straight face.

Quinn's hand brushed up against Santana's, and she interlaced their fingers together. She pulled her down beside her on the couch. She kissed the side of her neck. "You're sexier than Jane," she breathed into Santana's ear. She pulled her into an embrace, kissing the top of her head. She shifted them so she could hold her wife, but still be able to look at her. Neither was surprised by the light tears in both of their eyes.

"I want it with you, too, Santana, but I only want all of you. I'm selfish, and selfish people learn to demand what they want. I want your love, and I want your revenge, and I want your secrets. What you've told me, it's scary to hear. I mean what if a SWAT team just showed up at our door one day? I'd be one of those women on the news that says stupidly, 'I never knew'."

Santana gave a sad but somewhat relieved smiled. "It's not going to happen. The SWAT team part of it. I don't actively go around flaunting the law…well, you know except the thing for Mercedes, but that was only because I _never_ liked the guy, and seriously who breaks up with someone after you have sex with them first? And because I love Mercedes, and feel protective when someone hurts her because I know how much she wants and deserves to be someone's all."

Quinn smiled because she loved that Santana loved her friend. "What I did for Hazel, I might could lose my job over, but I won't go to jail for it."

"How do you know?"

"I know," Santana said confidently.

Quinn held on to Santana's face so she couldn't look at anything else but her. Her eyes smoldered. "I don't want you doing things that could get you taken away from me. The only thing I can imagine being worse than spending the rest of my life with you, is having to do it without you, and I can't imagine that, Santana. So please don't make me."

"I can't either, Quinn. I imagine whole nations would collapse if I was no longer here."

"Way to ruin a moment there, San."

"I'm here three nights a week. Don't forget to tip your waitress."

"You're insufferable," Quinn said fondly.

"You quote Lady Ga-Ga lyrics so you can't talk to me about how corny I am."

She kissed Santana on top of her head. "Do you know what I spent the ride home thinking about?"

"I can only imagine."

"How you would react if this was reversed and it was Beth that you were just finding out about."

Santana swallowed. "Yea?"

"Do you want Phillip in your life?" It took her a moment, but she slowly nodded. "If it were Beth, I'd hope that you would accept that she was a part of my life that I just couldn't give up."

Santana's smile was teary and hopeful. "Yeah?" Quinn nodded. That quickly, though, the smile vanished from Santana's face. "She's not going to stay here, though, Quinn. She's 30 minutes away from the person she's not supposed to run into, and even with the change in her appearance, it's not enough."

"It doesn't change the fact that he's still your son," Quinn said, evenly. "If she does leave…we'll get through it. I know what it feels like to not be able to see your kid, or to not have any say in how their raised. It hurts like a bitch, but if it happens, we'll get through that together."

Santana took a moment to appreciate all that was her wife. "You know that thing we never say? I do, you know, more than anything."

"Me too," Quinn readily agreed. She snorted. "We're some pair, huh? Stubborn, pigheaded,"

"Fierce, and don't forget flawless," Santana chimed in.

"Of course, flawless," Quinn said, placing more kisses on Santana's forehead. Santana leaned up the next time to steal a kiss. It took a second for Quinn to adjust to the softness of Santana's lips as opposed to the firmer surface of her forehead that she was expecting, but then she kissed her back. _I love you_ wasn't said audibly, but it was mouthed into each other's lips, as they moved in tandem against each other. Santana shifted, moving from being embraced by Quinn's arms, to topping Quinn. Their hands ran over each other. Santana adjusted so she could settle between Quinn's legs. Quinn reached for the hem of Santana's shirt, while Santana's hands slipped beneath Quinn's.

Santana's tongue explored the inner depths of Quinn's mouth, somehow breathing assurance into Quinn. Quinn responded back by tightening her arms around Santana, by locking her legs around Santana's, holding her in place. She squeezed Santana's butt, pulling her closer. Santana moaned, and the sound broke the spell. They had been moving so leisurely against each other, that neither of them had realized what they were doing, but when Santana moaned, it came back to them. Quinn, however, was more than willing to carry on as if she didn't remember that they were supposed to be cooling it.

Santana chuckled. "Come on, babe," she coaxed, pulling Quinn's hand from beneath her shirt.

Quinn grunted. "You know, this is really going to put a damper on our honeymoon." She got a hopeful look on her face. " _Unless…_ we get an exception."

"February is practically right around the corner," Santana tried to say with conviction, but all she could really think about was the taste of Quinn, and the taste that was like her second favorite thing in the world. "And I meant what I said when I said I want to fully connect with you baby. Falling back on sex is easy, and easy doesn't help us expand on our relationship or learn how to connect to each other. It just leaves us with this giant band of uncertainty, and when we're unsure we attack each other, and you've got some pretty long claws there, babe. You'd have to, to keep up with mine."

"I don't like this older, more mature Santana," Quinn pouted.

Santana placed a kiss on her lips. "That's a shame, because she adores this older, semi-mature Quinn. Even if she nitpicks about where I put my shoes."

"I wouldn't if you left them by the door where they go. There's even a convenient little bench for you to stick them under at my place, _and_ a shoe rack in the closet, because there is a proper place for everything, and just out of curiosity, if important documents are hidden in the bookshelf, what's actually in the safe?"

"Paper work, contracts, and 10k in cash if I ever just need to leave in the middle of the night." Quinn felt the weight of those words settle with her.

She felt really small when she questioned, "Is your life in danger?"

"Not actively. It's more for Hazel than anything else."

Slowly, Quinn breathed out. "What kind of paperwork?"

"A 100 or so pages of everything you ever wanted to know about me."

"Meaning…?"

"My super secret job requires a security clearance. I kept a copy of the paperwork that I had to fill out. It essentially tells my whole life history, my drug use, where I've lived for the past 10 years, who I associate with."

"Am I in there?"

Santana nodded. "Yes. As a close association because obviously we weren't married the last time I had a security check. When I have to get it renewed later on this year, you will be."

"Renewed?" Quinn questioned curiously. "You've worked there long enough to have to have it renewed?"

"I've worked for the agency since I was 19 years old. I have to get my clearance renewed every five years."

"Five?" Quinn hit on, and Santana could tell by the tone of Quinn's voice that the time span meant something to her. "That means you have a top secret security clearance, which means that you revealing things could jeopardize the United States, which means you're a spy!"

Santana looked simultaneously amused and proud of her wife. "Why are you so set on believing I'm a spy?"

"Because, you totally sound like one. Are you?"

"What's your definition of a spy?"

Quinn's face wrinkled as she thought about it. "Someone who works for a secret government agency, who is trained to be able to kill someone with their thumb, and goes around protecting the union from foreign and domestic terrorists."

"You watch too many movies," Santana chided. "I don't know how to kill anyone with my thumb, but I do know several ways how to kill someone with my bare hands. I also know how to save someone's life in emergency situations, which I think is far more important. I have never killed anyone, nor do I ever express any desire _to_ kill anyone. Yes, I have a top secret security clearance, and yes I work for a government agency, but not a top secret one. You can Wiki the one I work for. And by your definition, I am not a spy. I do freelance analyst work for the GSA, the General Service Administration."

Quinn frowned, because that didn't sound half as sexy as a spy did, though Quinn couldn't say that she'd actually want a spy for a wife. "The GSA is the agency that keeps track of,"

"All the pens, and pencils, and desks that go out to government facilities, yes," Santana said. "There's a certain chain of command that every government contractor has to go through; since they are receiving government money they have to be as economical as possible. When government facilities are decommissioned, there is all this equipment and stuff that's left behind, and government contracts are supposed to get their supplies like paper, pencils, desks, chairs, etc., from the GSA. It's like a giant supply store, and I keep tabs on the things that get moved around."

Quinn frowned. "That's it?"

Santana appraised the disappointed look on her face. "I told you, you'd be disappointed when you finally found out. I don't actually work for them, per se, but when they have discrepancies, they get people like me, analysts, to come in, look at the books, find where money went missing and what not."

"What about the combat class?"

"I was assaulted once; I don't want to be assaulted again."

"And the guns?"

"I just like the idea of having Bond's gun."

"So, you're just a loggy?"

Santana nodded. "Yep."

"And it's just freelance?"

"Yes."

Quinn wasn't sure if she believed that. It all sounded plausible, but that was the problem: it sounded plausible.

"You don't believe me, do you? You actually wanted me to be a spy."

She kind of pouted. "It would have been cool to tell people."

"Only you wouldn't be able to tell anyone anything." Santana chuckled. "I never said that it was glamorous."

"And that girl in the bar? The one who got between you and Jenna?"

Santana grimaced at that. "I am actually not legally able to answer any questions about her. I mean you could ask me if she was standing right in front of me, and I wouldn't be able to answer that."

"Is _she_ a spy?"

Santana just smiled in amusement at Quinn. "You're more than welcome to read through the paperwork if you want."

"Will it tell me where else you work?"

"Our bank statements tell you where I work," Santana reminded her, but then she just thought she'd answer. I work for Little, Brown, and Co. In the children's fiction division. We're in the middle of a book launch, and I can't tell you for who, or rather anything pertaining to it, because, like I said…contracts. I do the book formats. I pick the weight, the background, the colors, the jacket cover, the font type, etc, etc…like I said, basically I pick out wedding invitations all day, hence why the last thing I want to come home to do was pick out more layouts."

"That's-,"

"I know," Santana agreed. "Unimpressive. When you say you work for a publishing company, especially one as well-known as Little, Brown, everyone has this grand idea of what you do, and it doesn't really live up to that. Besides, I have a future gift planned out, and I didn't want you to know where I worked for that reason as well. But there you have it, I work at Little, Brown, and Co. as my day job, and I do analyst work for the GSA."

"So if you're not a spy, why do you know five different languages?"

"I know _seven_ different languages," Santana corrected. "Antillean Creole, English, Spanish, Yiddish, French, Latin, and German."

"Why do you know so many languages?"

"I grew up speaking the first three; it's part of my heritage. I know Yiddish because I had to help Puck get ready for his bar mitzvah and so I could say the prayer at his wedding. When I got to college I studied Latin because it's a root language, which made learning French easier, and I can understand, but not speak, Italian, because I know French and Spanish. I guess I'm just good at languages. If you buy me Rosetta Stone for Christmas I'll be well on my way to learning Mandarin Chinese, too."

"So, not a spy?"

Santana shook her head. "No. Any other questions?"

"I've got a million other questions," Quinn remarked. "But just one more, for now."

"Shoot."

"If Puck isn't Phillips father, do you know who is?"

Santana gave one quick nod of her head. "I do. You do, too."

Quinn gave a forced laugh. "Why is it one of the Glee kids?"

"I shouldn't have said that you know him, I should have said that you know someone he's related to."

"Who?"

"What did you tell me your reason for almost going home with Jenna was?"

Quinn sighed, feeling all of the ground that they covered disappearing. "Santana, if you're not over that we need to actually hash it out, but you can't-,"

"That's not what this is about. What did you tell me?"

"That the only reason I was going to go home with her was because she reminded me of…It's _Jenna._ Jenna is Phillips..."

"Intended mother, but biologically his aunt."

"Well, shit."

Indeed.


	27. The Honeymoon Conundrum

Quinn woke up in the middle of the night from sheer discomfort. She and Santana had fallen asleep on the couch, and since Quinn was on the bottom, she had fallen asleep at an awkward angle, and had ended up with her spine pressed into the hard surface of the couch. "San?" Quinn whispered, softly shaking Santana a little. There was absolutely no way that Quinn was going to be able to get off the couch without waking Santana, and her back couldn't stand being on Santana's death couch for the rest of the night.

Santana snorted, startling awake. "What's wrong, babe?"

"We fell asleep on the couch."

"Oh," Santana yawned, wiping the corner of her mouth. Santana didn't seem to see the dilemma, and simply nuzzled further into Quinn's body.

There was a part of her that thought that her sleepy wife was probably one of the most adorable things ever, and how nice it would be to just lay here forever, but that was her pre-high school car crash part, and it was overwhelmingly outnumbered by the throbbing pain localized in her back part. "San?" she tried again.

"Sssh, Quinn, I'm trying to sleep."

Quinn pushed her a little harder. "You have to get up, sweetie. We need to get in the bed."

Even a half asleep Santana smiled at the term of endearment. "You called me your sweetie," she mumbled. Santana pushed her lips up, seeking out Quinn's mouth. Quinn shook her head, but still connected her lips to Santana's. "Thank you, baby," Santana said automatically.

"Come on, San," Quinn pleaded, shaking Santana a little harder. After a full minute Santana opened her eyes. "Why're you trying to wake me up?" Santana grumped. "That's mean."

"We fell asleep on the couch," Quinn explained.

Santana seemed ready to close her eyes again, but then she sort of connected the words together. "Oh, babe, your back! Why didn't you say something?" Santana sprang up, instantly awake. She gently slid her arms underneath Quinn's body, lifting her up. She placed several kisses on Quinn's forehead, apologizing after each one.

She carried Quinn into the bedroom, bridal style, and laid her gently on the bed, before crawling in beside her, facing her. "How's your back?" Santana questioned with concern. Quinn gave a smile. "I'll live," she replied.

Santana yawned. "What time is it?"

There was a sock covering the clock, and neither felt like reaching over to pull it away. "Late," Quinn remarked. She stared, unblinkingly at her wife. "Hi," she whispered.

"Hi," Santana whispered back.

"Elephant shoes," Quinn said clearly.

Santana's lips moved just as slowly, but with purpose, "Olive Juice."

"I would listen to an Alanis Morissette CD for you."

"I'd watch Barbra Streisand for you." Santana grimaced. "What was it like, kissing Berry?"

"Santana," Quinn protested.

Santana gestured. "What? You made out with her!"

"Does it bother you that much?"

Santana's face scrunched up. After a second she nodded. "Yea, I think it does. How did it even happen?"

"I told you, I was drunk."

"Yeah, and I've been drunk around the Hobbit, and it still never happened, and she practically pranced in front of me ass naked."

"She what?!" Quinn demanded.

"Ha, you see! That's what I'm talking about!"

"If it makes you feel better, she doesn't compare. At all."

"Thanks," Santana said dryly. "But you still kissed her." Santana pouted. Quinn always felt that there was no point in encouraging Santana when she was being ridiculous, so she didn't indulge her wife. "Has she told you who she's bringng to the wedding?"

"She just said she was bringing an ex."

"I thought she liked Puck's soldier friend. Do you know what happened with that?"

Quinn just shrugged. "Maybe it was just a one-night stand kind of thing."

"So much for being married by 25. That reminds me, Young's going to be at the wedding. I may have passed along Mercedes number after the Xavier thing, and they've been talking. He's her date."

Quinn had heard no such thing, and she was mildly outraged because _she_ was supposed to be Mercedes best friend. Were there rules, she wondered, about wives not stealing their wife's best friend? "How do you know this, and I don't?"

"Because men secretly talk as much as girls do, and Puck spilled all."

"Do you know if Sam's bringing anyone?"

"Why, looking to get a little side action?" Santana made a rude gesture.

"Ew…no…"

"Why'd you invite him, again?" Santana wondered.

"He's one of us," Quinn said with a shrug. Her eyes sparked. "Hey, you called it a wedding."

Santana frowned. "Didn't you say that you wanted a ceremony?"

"I do," Quinn whispered. "I like you calling it a wedding. Let me have my moment."

"You're so weird, Quinn."

"No," she corrected. She fluttered her eyelashes at Santana. "I'm adorable."

"That you are, babe." Quinn leaned in closer to her wife, just short of sharing a pillow with her. Surprisingly, Santana pulled back a little. "If I leave you alone at the reception you're not going to be tempted to make out with Rachel again, are you?" she teased. "Because there will be alcohol there, and I know how much weddings turn you on to Berry."

Quinn took the joke in stride. "As long as you don't try to take home the bartender, I think I should be alright."

That cute little sideways grin appeared on Santana's face moments before Quinn moved the remaining inches onto Santana's pillow. Quinn grabbed a fistful of Santana's shirt. She wrapped her leg around her wife. "If you're so worried about Rachel, you're more than welcome to try to erase her taste from my mouth."

Quinn lightly licked Santana's lips, giving a wink. Santana was visibly shaking from her desire to move across the space between them. Desire won out, and she pulled Quinn forward. Just as quickly as the kiss was initiated, though, Santana pulled back. "We can't, Quinn," Santana said regretfully.

"But," Quinn placed her lips at Santana's ear, "I want to feel you hot and wet around me."

"Fuck…you're not playing fair, babe."

Quinn pulled back. "Okay, how about just for the honeymoon?"

Santana watched Quinn absently lick her lips. Regretfully Santana shook her head. "Sorry, babe. Rules be rules."

"It's our honeymoon. You know what those are for? To have sex."

"Actually they were to hopefully impregnate a woman before the soldiers rushed off to war, and since I can't get you pregnant..."

"Then, what if we put it off for a few months?"

"The no sex or the honeymoon?"

Quinn laughed. "Both?"

Santana joined the laughter. "Damn, Quinn. Do you think that we'll not be able to manage being around each other for two weeks without sex?"

"We can be _around_ each other, but I saw the bikini, and I don't think I can control myself if you're strutting around in it. Especially when there's going to be like a dozen or more folks eye fucking you the entire time, and I won't be able to stake my claim."

"My, my, Mrs. Fabray-Lopez, such language," Santana mocked. She got serious, quickly though. "There's something I need to tell you."

Quinn pulled back, too. "Okay, new rule for the marriage. You can't start statements with 'there's something I need to tell you'. Whenever I hear those words, my heart crashes into my stomach, and I'm instantly imagining that it's worse than it really is."

"Okay, point," Santana said. "I will strive not to do so."

"Thank you," Quinn breathed out. "So what do you _need_ to tell me? Is there _another_ child out there?"

"It's about our honeymoon."

Quinn involuntarily winced. "Well, that certainly doesn't sound like you've suddenly changed your mind and you're going to let me take you with Gianna against the hotel door."

Santana moaned softly at the thought. "No, babe, I'm sorry. I wish that's what I had to tell you, because that would make you really happy, and what I have to say is going to make you sad."

"Umm…you're not helping me not panic," Quinn whispered.

"My vacation time wasn't approved." Santana talked quickly. "I have to go to Arizona for a couple of weeks, but I will swear to you on the bible that I'm going under extreme protest. There's nothing that I want to do more than be with you on the beach, showing off my teeny, tiny, itty-bitty little red bikini." A flash of inspiration spread across Santana. "I'm in my teeny, tiny, itty-bitty, fuck me hard red bikini, on a beach, filled with sand...hmmm...I thought I had something there."

Quinn was momentarily distracted. "You know that's already a song, right?"

"No, it's not! I totally just made that up."

"Seriously, San, it is." Quinn hummed, "She wore an itsy bitsy, teeny weenie, yellow-polka dot bikini. Look it up."

Santana looked intensely disappointed. "Is it really?" Quinn nodded. "Well, pooh."

Quinn remembered the catalyst for this conversation, and she frowned. Although the thought of spending two weeks with Santana and _not_ being able to have sex with her was the absolute definition of torture, Quinn couldn't hide her utter disappointment that their honeymoon wasn't going to happen.

"You can come to Arizona with me if you want," Santana said quickly, "or we can go to Cabo, or really anywhere you want after. Since it's business, I'll still have my vacation time. We can spend Christmas in Vermont, or in Hawaii." Quinn's face still hadn't changed. "I'll find a way to make it up to you, babe, I promise, and this is like a one-time thing."

Quinn lay there, her eyes staying glued to Santana. "Is this a real one-time thing, or like that night on Valentine's Day, one-time thing?"

Santana gave a soft smile. "The first. Like, I'm still going to have to travel with my jobs from time to time, but I'm not going to be the kind of spouse who misses out on important events so that I can kill myself working." Quinn's stern expression lasted a few more seconds, before she smiled. Santana nearly cowered from the sight. "Is that a your about to ripe my throat out with your teeth kind of smile?" Santana questioned, nervously.

Quinn scooted closer to her wife. "No, that's a, 'you could have lied and called off the honeymoon because we're not having sex, but instead you decided to tell me the truth' smile." Quinn stroked Santana's cheek.

Santana exhaled. "Oh." She tried to judge Quinn's gaze. "So are you mad?"

"I'm Disappointed," Quinn said honestly. "I really wanted to see you in that bikini, even if you weren't going to let me rip it from your body with my teeth and let me have my way with you. But I understand having to do something for your job. I won't lie, though. I don't want you to go."

"I don't want to go," Santana quickly responded.

"How long will you be gone?"

"From the 27th to the 18th."

"That long?" Santana nodded regretfully.

"It was only supposed to be two weeks, but then another week got added, and apparently this was set in place before we got married, and even though I originally got approved for it, Paulianne, told me that management denied my request, because she was pressured to, and she just generally likes being a bitch."

"For which job?"

"Both, actually," she responded. "I'm going to be working the whole time I'm away, and it's hot as hell in Arizona at this time of year, and I honest to God don't want to be away from you for even a fraction of this time, and it's not going to be any fun, and I'm going to miss you like crazy, and I don't wanna go."

"You said that already."

"I just really want you to know that." She gave her best charming face. "I'd rather spend an hour arguing with you, then 24 away from you."

Quinn shook her head at the dysfunction of their relationship but all she said was, "Okay."

Santana smiled, but quickly looked sheepish once again. "One last thing?"

"Oh, _just_ one?"

"I offered to take Phil with me, so Hazel could have some time to herself, and she told me no, but she might change her mind at the last minute. So he might be coming with me, at least for part of the time."

"Phil," Quinn repeated the name. It wasn't said bitterly, it wasn't said with a sneer or any maliciousness, it was just Quinn sampling the name. She knew she would have to get used to it, to him, and it could have been worse. He could have been the child from _Problem Child,_ but he was an okay kid. He was very grounded, and far more polite than Quinn would have imagined a child belonging to Santana would be. Her problem with Phillip was that he existed, that it meant that there would always be this intrusion into their marriage … but like it or not, no matter what Hazel or Santana said, Phillip _was_ Santana's son.

No, they weren't biologically related, and no Santana and Hazel weren't together, or had ever been together, but Santana had been there from the day he was born. She had given him her name, had provided for him, had mothered him, and had been a mother to him; Phillip saw Santana as his other mother which was all that mattered to Quinn (and to the state of Massachusetts who recognized an 'intended' parent). Saying that Philip wasn't her son, was like saying that a child that Santana or Quinn had wasn't really _their_ child, or that Beth wasn't Shelby's. So even though he was an inconvenience, the fact of the matter was that he was here, so she had to accept him. Quinn wasn't going to be that person who tried to devalue Santana and Phil's relationship for the convenience of her own. Her wife had a child. She just had to deal with it.

"Do we know what we're doing about that?"

"I just came to grips that he's going to be in my life like that tonight, babe," Santana responded. "I guess Hazel and I," she reconsidered, "the three of us, you, me, and Hazel, will have to sit down and talk about it. Since he's starting school, I'll probably just have him every other weekend…or something." She bit down on her lip. The magnitude of it all seemed to weigh on the both of them just then, but especially Santana. "I don't even have a child's seat for him."

"So you'll buy one," Quinn assured her before Santana could start to panic. "San, you know how to be a parent; you've been one for years."

"Why are you being so good about this?" Santana questioned. "What do you have cooking over there?"

"Nothing. I told you; if I'd surprised you about Beth, I'd hope that you would be understanding about it. I'm…trying…Santana. We're in it for better or worse, right?" Timidly, Santana nodded. "Just no more surprises."

"I promise, there's no other secret kids out there."

"Are there any more surprises?"

Santana thought about it, and she thought about it some more. Quinn could almost literally see Santana thinking it through. "There probably are," she finally said. "But because I don't know what you know. If there's something you want to know, you could ask me about them if you like. If I can answer it, I will, and if I can't, I won't, but I won't lie to you."

Quinn instantly seized on that. "You won't lie?" Santana shook her head. "And I can ask anything?"

This time she nodded. "Yes."

"Do you honestly like the top of bottom?"

Santana got that that particular horn-dog look that Quinn loved so much on her wife. "I told you, I'm a switch hitter. I can 'top' from either position, but I do like it when you take control."

"Ha, I knew it!" Quinn crowed.

Santana stopped her in her bed-scoot dance. "Because I like seeing you having that confidence, and sense of possession. I like that you're comfortable enough with me that you can let it out. In case you forgot, there was a time when you would only be on the bottom, when you wouldn't kiss me after you went down on me or, hell, even _go_ down on me. A confident Quinn is my kryptonite; I've told you that."

Quinn felt that warm feeling spread throughout her body, a feeling that only Santana could give her. Quinn scooted closer to her on the bed. "Can I tell you a secret?" she whispered. Santana's expression changed, recognizing the desire in Quinn's voice. "I _like_ being on top, too. I love watching you fall apart beneath me, begging for more, and harder, and deeper, and I like giving it to you."

As she talked, Quinn tried very hard not to conjure up the image of her hovering over Santana at the moment where she became so overcome by the intensity of Quinn's actions, that she plunges over the edge. Tried not to remember how she gasped out Quinn's name when they're trying to be quiet, or how she yells it, when they're not (and usually they're not). How she looked when she tiptoed into an orgasm, as opposed to when she dived into it full-on. Quinn's hips moved slightly. Not enough to come in contact with Santana's lower half, but just enough to tell on her.

Santana of course noticed the involuntary thrust of Quinn's hips, and got a knowing smirk on her face. Quinn knew that Santana's relentless teasing was a mere seconds away. Quinn stopped her with a serious question. "How many people have you been in love with?"

The question distracted Santana from whatever crude joke she was going to make, but she didn't have to think about the answer. "Two."

"Do you like being married to me?"

"More than you could imagine."

"You really used to fantasize about me in high school?"

"I'll put it this way, being on the bottom of the pyramid was almost worth it because I could look up your skirt."

"Are you being serious?"

"Absolutely. Though I still think you are a bitch for telling Coach Sylvester about my surgery."

"Once again: you get a surgery when you get your appendix taken out. You got a boob job."

"I'm not afraid to slap you again, Fabray."

"Lopez." Quinn corrected, rolling her eyes. "Can you believe that we're really married to each other? What'd you put in the kool-aid that day?"

Santana puffed up her chest. "Oh come off it," she said, airily, "you know it was always your dream to marry me."

It got unexpectedly quiet. Santana frowned a little at the serious expression on Quinn's face. "It was just a joke, Quinnie, don't be a sour puss. We were having fun!"

Quinn didn't say anything; she burrowed down beneath the covers. "Babe!"

"It's late, San...or early. Go back to sleep."

"Come on, Quinn!" Santana protested. If it was possible to throw a fit on a bed, Santana looked to be about to start one. "You're going to have to seriously come up with a list for me about the things that I'm not allowed to say, because this isn't fair! We can tease each other about my boobs, but not about you marrying me?"

Quinn peeked her face out to look at Santana. "It's not that," Quinn remarked. "It was though," she whispered. Actually, it wasn't a whisper so much as her lips moved in concert with a sound too low to be considered a whisper. It was good, for Santana, that she just so happened to be very good at reading lips. "My dream," Quinn further explained. "To marry you."

Santana returned a confused look. "For how long?"

Quinn shrugged. "How long is forever? I don't know San, high school maybe."

Quinn startled when her wife cursed. "Fuck this whole communication thing! So, not only could we have been going at it like rabbits for years, but you wanted to marry me on top of that? Do you know how much fighting, and make up sex, we could have been getting ourselves into all these years? What else are we _not_ communicating?"

"Well, there's that thing," Quinn hinted. "You know the one we never say."

Santana chuckled. "Oh, that doesn't count. We both know how the other feels about that. I mean I'd listen to Schue rap the national anthem for you."

"I'd walk over burning coals for you, Pam from the office style."

"For a second I thought you were going to say _Michael_ from the office style, and then I'd know it was the forever kind."

"It _is_ the forever kind."

Santana gave Quinn a butterfly kiss. " _You're_ the forever kind." Though the smile didn't disappear, Santana's serious face lay claim to her features. "I don't care however long it took us to get here, I'm glad we're here, babe."

Quinn leaned over and placed a sweet kiss on her wife's lips. "Me too. I'd jump off the Titanic for you."

Santana snorted. "Fuck that. I mean Schue is one thing, but the cold is the cold, and this bitch? She ain't got time fo' dat."

Quinn shook her head, rolled her eyes, and pulled Santana across the space to her. "Shut up, Santana," she instructed seconds before she initiated a not so innocent kiss.

"Mmm…yes miss," Santana remarked before accepting Quinn's tongue into her mouth.

* * *

Quinn was rushing. They had so much to get done before the reception, the moms were going to be arriving next week, her inbox at work was piled sky high, which probably made it the most inopportune time to hop on an airplane and leave Boston, but that was precisely what she was doing. Something Santana had said last night, or rather this morning, had prompted this necessity.

So far, her marriage to her wife had been anything but easy. It had been filled with hurtful secrets, and lots of yelling, and now, no sex. Which…okay so Quinn had gone through long bouts of not having sex before. She wasn't driven by her libido. Completely. The difference between now and all of the other times, though, was that she was now married to one of the hottest women on the planet, one who approached sex like it was a six sense, who could probably have a PH.D. in it, and now they couldn't have it. She understood the reasoning behind it, but _still_ …So Quinn's energy needed to be funneled into other outlets. Which is why Quinn was getting on a plane.

Quinn was, by nature, a planner. As the ugly duckling born into a family of perfection, Quinn had been planning her great escape from the moment she realized that she just didn't fit into her surroundings. As a child, she had come up with a thousand and one wild explanations for how she had ended up in the Fabrays' household, her theories running the gamut from kidnapping, to being switched at birth, to her mother secretly having an affair with Mick Jagger, or someone similar, because she was the only one in the family who could carry a tune.

Sometimes planning seemed to be the only thing that she shared in common with her parents because they, too, were planners. Through some sin on her mother's part, Russell hadn't been graced with a boy, so he'd been forced to make do with what he had. The Fabrays were a Mayflower Family and while his particular branch may not have been wealthy by old money standards, they still had their name, and Russell had seen determined to make that count.

In Russell's eyes, Frannie may have been a girl, but she was the kind that would steal hearts; she was (the right kind of) smart, charismatic, and cunning. Russell made sure that he always found money to indulge her in the things little girls were supposed to be involved in: ballet, girl scouts (well until they were revealed to be the liberal front that they truly were), youth group at church. When she got older it was gymnastics and cheerleading, the Chastity Club, and the Honor Society. In order for Russell to see through his plan, perfection was a must. Perfect grades, perfect clothes, perfect hair. Frannie would grow up, not to be somebody, no because she was still a woman, but to marry somebody, yes. Some handsome, wealthy, old family man who they would have perfect little children with, preferably with blonde hair.

These same standards weren't imparted on Quinn, not directly. Her parents didn't expect much from her. She didn't fit into the mold of what a Fabray was, so she didn't appear to be worth anyone's time. She didn't get a lecture when she brought home her first 'G' for good instead of an 'E' for excellent. Russell had merely sighed in a 'what do you expect' kind of way that answered 'not much'.

Her mother never taught her the basics in how to catch a man, and why would she when no guy worth having would ever give her double chin and fat thighs a second chance? Nothing much was expected from her by her family, so she expected it from herself. She made herself forsake all things for the sake of studying until she had all the information committed to memory, and it wasn't really all that hard because she didn't have any friends. But just like Russell had plans to restore the Fabray line to some level of prominence, Quinn had a grand plan to get away.

When she started to drop the weight and redeem herself a little in her parents' eyes, they started expecting more from her. It always hurt how frighteningly quickly her father agreed to her getting a nose job. How that much more interested her mother became in her once Quinn started to dye her hair. Quinn had never grown up with that feeling that her parents loved her no matter what, because they, especially her dad, had shown her time and time again, how conditional their love was. Quinn hadn't grown up feeling loved, and in return she had never felt like she ever would be loved, or that she even deserved to be.

But she did. She had past sins, but they weren't so heinous that she didn't deserve love, or happiness. She had someone who understood that and gave her both. She wasn't going to let anything ever take that away from her again. So Quinn was going to Ohio, instead of work today, because if Quinn and Santana were going to move forward in their relationship, they couldn't still be held back by the things in their pasts. Quinn had daddy issues, but Quinn was no longer a child.

Santana might have managed to go back to sleep, but after waking up, Quinn had been unable to do the same. Her and her wife's conversation had given her a lot of things to try to process, and as was typical when she couldn't sleep, her mind raced with the thoughts that were keeping her awake. She had made her decision around 4:30, and slipped from the bed to find out the information that she needed. The earliest flight out of Logan (that didn't spend an unfathomly long time to get to her destination) was at 5:40 in the morning. That gave her just enough time to slip into something suitable, jot down a note to Santana about not being able to sleep, needing to get out, and to say that she'd see her when she got home later this evening, and then to high step it to Logan airport.

There had been a surprising number of people at the airport for it to be the weekday and so early, but since Quinn had no bags to check, and only her purse to go through security, she didn't have any problem making her flight. She got in a short nap on the way to D.C., and another really brief one from D.C. to Dayton. During the hour long layover in D.C. she called first her boss, to tell him that he wouldn't be able to make it in today, then her dad to politely request that he make himself available for the latter half of the afternoon. After she hung up, she had just enough time to make a reservation with the Enterprise in Dayton, before she was being called to board her second of three flights for the day. Her last, a non-stop flight from Columbus to Boston, would leave Ohio at 5:00 p.m., and would get her back to Boston in just over two hours. Add 30 minutes for city travel time, and she would make it home just in time to have had a longer day at work, and a slightly traffic heavy drive home. It would be tight, but as long as things went according to plan, it was doable. And if things went exceedingly well (no hold up on the take-off), she wouldn't even have to make up an untruth to tell Santana.

Quinn got her rental and started the little more than an hour drive to Lima. She distracted herself by turning on the radio. Vivienne Pitt-Jolie's song, _Broken_ Arrow, was playing, and although the song was inane and Vivienne's voice sounded like bathwater, Quinn sang along as if her life depended on it. Being back in Ohio was always strange for her. Quinn had pretty much given up everything she had in order to get away, and so she was always the most reluctant to come back. This was the year of their 10-year-reunion and that their honeymoon would have taken place the weekend of the reunion well, it's amazing, sometimes how convenient life works out. The second Rachel found out that the honeymoon was cancelled, she would probably be begging Quinn to come back 'home'.

 _"Inescapably yours, to do as you will, but I am my own, body to fill…"_ Quinn paused in her singing. "Geez, celebrity's children should not be allowed to have careers in the entertainment industry. This is just awful!" But Quinn continued to sing along.

For Quinn, Lima wasn't home. It had always felt like the place where she was in-between getting to the place she wanted to be. It had never managed to feel like home. It wasn't until Quinn moved to Boston that she felt like she had found her home. Even though she had only lived in the city for four years, now, Boston just felt right. The air felt right, the ground beneath her feet felt right, the architecture, and the residents, felt right. It felt her. She finally felt in place, and she had never felt like that anywhere else.

Martin had been right about Quinn and New York: she wasn't a New Yorker. After years of listening to her friends rave about the city, she thought that she'd like it, too. But if Lima made her feel like she was constantly underneath the spotlight or a microscope, New York made her feel like she didn't even exist. It was crowded, dirty, and so trendy that the people were jaded by the very notion of how cool they were. The city didn't know what to do with itself. There were a thousand things to do, and Quinn could never figure out which one of thousands she should attempt. She had loved getting closer to Mercedes, and even Berry, Kurt, and Blaine, but she had never felt a kinship to New York. She didn't even bat an eye about leaving it.

P!nk's _Glitter in the Air_ replaced Vivienne's song, the seductive voice of a stripped down P!nk filling up the car. " _Have you ever fed a lover, with just your hands?_ " Quinn turned the song up loud enough to drown out her own voice, and sang along with the song. Quinn had never managed to listen to this song without crying, and today proved to be no exception. This song had always made her think of her, Santana, and Brittany, and the triangular nature of their relationship. _"Closed your eyes and just trusted. Have you ever thrown a fistful of glitter in the air?"_

Yale had been the same way as New York for Quinn. As a child and a teen so much of her focus had been on getting away from Lima that Quinn never spent too much time thinking about what she would do once she got away. She had set her mind on Yale, but that was in the abstract. Once she was actually on the campus, that was a completely different matter. To be honest, Quinn didn't like Yale. When you spend your life moving towards one single goal, it can get romanticized in your head. That's how Yale was; it was an ideal. Once she got there, though, she discovered she didn't like it.

She tried. She had started her freshman year with the intention of remaking herself. Of being, not that girl who was often ignored and overlooked, nor the one who screwed up and had a baby at 16. She didn't want to be the girl who was the poster girl for the 'don't text and drive' movement. She wanted to leave Lima in the past, make new friends, new connections, be a new Quinn. It can be so very hard to reinvent yourself, though. And the thing about being a loner who was suddenly surrounded by friends is that it is very hard going back to being alone, once you know what it is exactly that you're missing.

Quinn had tried to surround herself with new people, she joined a sorority, and social clubs, but she had never been good at making friends; her friends had all just sort of made her. No matter how many times she saw the same people on campus, they never became her familiars. Instead she had casual acquaintances who didn't get her sense of humor, or even knew what humor was, and she had a dozen or more study buddies, but no one to go out with on the weekends. No one to talk to about how much she had enjoyed a book. Surprisingly, she found herself missing Lima. No, not Lima. She missed those very same people from high school that she swore she was going to leave far behind her. She had tried so hard to shed Lima, but Lima wasn't willing to be left in the dust.

She'd had every intention of skipping out on that Thanksgiving her first year away, despite her promise to come home, but at the last minute she changed her mind. But it didn't take long to remember just about every reason she had for not wanting to come back. Although she was Quinn at college, she was Quinn Fabray in Lima, and everyone expected something from her. They wanted to share how much they admired her, or they wanted to hear about life in the Ivy League, and she didn't know what to tell them other than how lonely it was. How, she had no idea how to ascend to the same level that she'd been in, in high school, and how she was so miserable, that she had become _that_ _girl_. That naïve, freshman, sorority chick who got manipulated into having an affair with one of her married professors, even though he wasn't nearly as brilliant as he thought she believed him to be. Being with Patches, as Santana called him, was never about grades, or about his charm, it was about companionship, and really, just about being in a relationship with an older male authority figure.

The only good thing about Thanksgiving was that when she started to brag, to make up this false world that aligned with everything that people thought Quinn Fabray should be, the one girl who had always seen straight through her bullshit had, well, seen straight through her bullshit, and called her out on it.

Coming back home for Thanksgiving, meant coming home for Christmas, which she spent at the Lopezs' because she hadn't want to spend it with a barely there Judy. By the time she was heading back to Yale, though, Quinn was almost wishing that she had toughed it out with her mother rather than having to deal with a heartbroken and aimless Santana that was pining over a Brittany who had seriously believed the world was going to end, and instead of calling up Santana and declaring that she was her soul mate, had fake married Sam.

Needless to say, Christmas was a disaster. But it had solidified two things for Quinn: she hated Brittany, and she was oh so helplessly in love with Santana. Being around her was painful, talking to her was painful, watching how desperately in love she was with Brittany wasn't pain, it was flat out torture. She swore to herself that she was so done with it all, that she would bury herself completely in the alien world of the Ivy League, but she had one, just one, more obligation to Lima, Ohio, and then she could bury everyone and everything behind her.

Quinn wasn't the biggest fan of Valentine's Day, and spending it alone just reminded her of all of the ones she passed as a kid, opening up her Valentine's Day mailbox and seeing only a handful, two or three at the most, Valentines, given to her only by the nicest kids, the ones who pitied her, or who had given one to everyone. Being suddenly popular hadn't changed her view on the holiday, though she did look forward to the same Valentine that Santana gave her every year, no matter if they were angry with each other or not.

The Valentine's Day of Mr. Schue's wedding, Santana had seemed just as miserable about the holiday, as she was, miserable enough that she was actually friendlier with Quinn than Quinn expected. Quinn saw an opening that day, and so she decided to take it. So maybe she couldn't have Santana's heart; she could at least have her for a night. When she flirted with her friend, she was surprised when Santana flirted back. She laughed at her jokes, she listened when she talked, and when the drink made her brave enough to cautiously touch her friend, she was surprised that Santana didn't pull away. When she held her gaze for a second longer than necessary, Santana looked back.

Quinn wasn't stupid. She knew Santana was nursing a heartbreak, but she'd take what she'd get, and take it she did. Santana was thoroughly surprised when Quinn suggested that they dance together when Rachel and Finn started singing. It shouldn't have really been that big of a deal, since they'd been dancing together all night, but they hadn't danced to a slow song before. Quinn knew she was in trouble the second her hands connected with Santana's hips. What surprised her was how tightly Santana had clung back when they danced, and the look of shock on her face when Quinn told her that she liked dancing with her.

Although Quinn was nothing but confidence when she suggested that they head upstairs, she was completely floored when Santana actually agreed, and far more nervous than she had ever been for anything in her life. She wanted it to be a horribly awkward, terrible experience, so she could accept that they had no sexual chemistry, no chemistry of any kind, and she could forget about the girl once and for all, but it didn't work out the way she planned. Sex with Santana had been perfect. After the one that they just had to knock out, Santana had taken her time, had showed her what having sex with a female could be like. What having sex with Santana could be like.

Santana was surprisingly unselfish in bed. All of the traits people thought she lacked, compassion, understanding, civility, patience, selflessness, she held in droves in the bedroom. (Her sharp tongue, fortunately that carried into the bedroom too). Even the first time, when it was all about doing the thing, Santana had been in tune to Quinn's needs. She pushed when it was necessary, held back when was needed, listened to Quinn's unspoken desires, and didn't ask for anything in return. That first round had been mind-shattering, the two times after that, had been heartbreaking. Heartbreaking because it felt too much like making love, and Quinn just didn't know how to process that. She didn't know how to process the idea of someone actually loving _her_ , not Quinn Fabray, but her, and she definitely didn't know how to process that that person expressing those feelings was Santana; how to comprehend that the person who she had first loved, seemed to love her back. If only for a night.

It was in the moments that Quinn was leaving the hotel to head back to Yale that Quinn realized that she would never be able to leave Lima, because as long as another person was tied to this small town, she would be, too. She thought about this as the familiar sights passed by outside the window, as the cornfields, and the old farmhouses, and the young boys driving by in their pick-up trucks, moved around her. She remembered what Brittany had said when Quinn had confronted her: _I'm home to her_. She understood because while Lima, and New Haven, and New York, weren't home, the thing that made Boston so much better than any place she'd been, was having Santana. Santana was Quinn's home.

Quinn had been wondering what gift to give her wife for their wedding reception, and when thinking about the things that Santana would possibly want, only one had come to mind. Family was the most important thing in Santana's world. She lived by a sense of duty, or obligation. She believed in having a forgiving heart. This was what prompted Quinn to want to see Russell, to begin to build whatever she could with the man that she called father. And it was also what prompted her to drive through the streets of Lima Heights Adjacent.

She parked her car outside of a modest, ranch-style home, a home that the woman insisted on keeping despite offers to move her to a better place of residence. Quinn parked the rental on the street, pulled out the wedding invitation from her purse, and got out the car. If this worked, it would be the best gift Quinn could ever give her wife, and if it didn't, Santana wouldn't have to know about it.

Quinn knocked firmly on the door, her heart beating loudly. She had to resist the urge to play with her fingers, or chew on the corner of her lip. The door finally swung open onto an attractive older woman, with streaks of gray intermingled with her now ashy black hair. Eyes that were hard, and brown, and located an inch lower than her own, stared at her intently. The look that she gave Quinn wasn't necessarily intended to be unfriendly, but that's the vibe that Quinn got from it nonetheless.

"Mrs. Lopez?"

"Yes?" The older woman questioned. This wasn't their first meeting, but Quinn could tell that the woman didn't recognize her. Or even worse, thought that she was Brittany. "I'm not buying anything you're selling, so if you're selling you might as well pack it on down the road."

"I'm not selling anything. I don't know if you remember me, but I went to high school your granddaughter, Santana." Quinn had had dinner over her at least twice, each time this woman insisting that she, Brittany, and Santana eat up because she insisted they were all so thin. They had even attended church together.

At Santana's name, Mrs. Lopez's eyes narrowed. Quinn wanted to shrink back from the look, but she was born a Fabray, and the one thing that she had more of than courage, was the ability to fake it. "I was wondering if we could talk?"

She showed concern at the statement. "Has something happened to Santana?" she demanded.

Quinn quickly shook her head. "No, no. Santana's fine. We're having a reception on the 20th, and I know Santana would really, really like it if you were to come."

Santana's abuela positioned herself half behind the door. "I know not this Santana that you speak."

"You're granddaughter."

"I don't have a granddaughter," Mrs. Lopez said firmly. "Santana has made her choices and she will have to live with them. Thank you for coming by…what did you say your name was?"

"Quinn," Quinn answered. "Quinn Fabray-Lopez." Mrs. Lopez's eyes narrowed into thin, slits. Familiar anger boiled up and burned out through Santana's abuela's eyes. "I'm your granddaughter's wife."


	28. Everybody Talks too Much

The first thing that Santana noticed when she woke up was that she was alone in their bed. She rolled over into the little stack of pillows that Quinn had made behind her to replace the feel of a body, but she couldn't replace the missing warmth of Quinn's arms wrapped around her. She would admit it to no one, but she liked it best when she got to fall asleep inside of Quinn's arms. So what… she liked being the small spoon. She was smaller than Quinn, so it just made sense.

She stretched, listening to various joints crack. Yep, she definitely wasn't eighteen anymore. She was just months away from 30, married, and…well that 'and' was going to take some getting used to, but at least Santana was up for the challenge.

"Babe?" she called, even though she knew she was alone in the apartment. Where was Quinn? On the days that Santana had to be to at work by 7:00, especially if that day was Monday, Quinn didn't normally get up until Santana was leaving to head out. And considering how little sleep they had gotten the night before, she was surprised that Quinn was even functioning, much less out of the apartment. Santana was thinking about calling Quinn when she saw the note sitting on top of her cell phone. Santana smiled softly to herself at the placement of Quinn's letter, but then she frowned at the wording. Did she need to get away from Santana?

She and Quinn had talked through some fairly serious topics last night, and they had had a couple of rough days. Hell, it was just a rough month. Had Phillip been the final straw? Quinn had seemed okay with it the day before, but Santana knew her wife, knew how good she was at pretending. What if Quinn had finally just had enough and she was done with them? Santana hated that that's the place where her mind went, but she hadn't exactly been the best wife so far, and she had kind of just dumped a whole lot on Quinn. Santana could only imagine how well she'd take it if the roles had been reversed.

Santana was startled out of her thoughts when her phone suddenly lit up, seconds before 'It's Raining Men' started to play.

Santana picked up the phone, and rolled her eyes in preparation before she said, "Hello, Mrs. Warbler.

"Santana we have been friends for more than 10 years now. Don't you think that you could, I don't know, stop with the insults?"

"That wasn't an insult! Are you or are you not Mr. Blaine Anderson? At least I stopped calling you Porcelain, and it's only been nine years. Don't go adding years that don't belong. You have to earn those, bitch!"

She could feel Kurt roll his eyes through the phone. It brought back memories of their times at the Bushwick loft when Kurt and Rachel were the wonder twins, and Santana had learned how to not throttle them day in and day out. Happy times. "Alright then, Satan, have it your way."

"I'm sorry, Kurt. Look, mature Santana is now on the phone. What can she do for you?"

There was a cautious silence. "Although I fully expected to be picking either your, or Quinn's body up from the morgue by now, and the fact that you two haven't managed to kill each other yet defies the laws of nature, it indeed appears that this is real and not some elaborate ruse, and thus Blaine and I accept your invitation."

"You already RSVP'd, Madam Bovary. And if you were honestly getting back to us this late in the game, you would be sitting in the back of the ballroom. Next to the cats."

"I _know_ we already RSVP'd but as one of your closest friends, one whom you haven't seen for _years_ ,"

"Hey, it's not my fault that you got married, got involved with your career, and became completely not fun-"

Kurt cleared his throat. "I just felt the need to tell you that you and Quinn, while terrifying, makes sense. And we're happy for you." God, she forgot that Kurt had the tendency to speak in wes. "I'm really just calling to let you know that Blaine and I were able to get away from work, so we'll be in town early-,"

Santana thought she knew where this was going, and she wanted to nip that idea in the bud. "If you're looking for lodging, no can do. The moms are already going to be here, and they get dibs." She and Quinn hadn't yet worked out if Quinn should just stay at her place with Judy and Maribel would stay at Santana's place with her, or if the moms should take Quinn's apartment, and they keep hers. Santana was more in favor of the latter because it meant that she didn't have to spend a whole day of her precious time cleaning the apartment to Maribel Lopez standards.

Kurt seemed affronted. "That's, not…you do know that there are these things called hotels, and between the two of us I'm quite sure we could afford one."

It wasn't a jab about money. Not really, and Santana didn't take it as such, but there was that momentary quiet because Kurt and Blaine made a lot of it. Nearly $300,000 a year between them, which was nearly double what Quinn and her combined income was. That fact actually didn't bother Santana at all. She knew people who were surviving on $30,000 a year, hell Puck wasn't that far from it.

Despite the amount of money that Kurt and Blaine made, however, if Santana said that she had an air mattress with Kurt's name on it, well he'd complain about it the whole night, but he'd be sleeping on it, nonetheless. (Berry would demand use of the bed, but she would crowd into the apartment just as quickly, too). "And anyway, Mercedes has already extended guest space to us, thank you very much."

Santana had a new thing to add to the list when she and Quinn got their place together: more space. "I'm sorry, Kurt. What has made me lucky enough to hear your voice, and so early in the morning at that?"

He huffed. "I was calling," Kurt kind of snapped, "because you and our dear Quinn's bachelorette parties are going to be separated into two camps, and since Puck is in charge of yours, that means I'll be with Quinn's camp, so I was calling if you would like to get together with me and Rachel beforehand. You know, just to reconnect."

Santana was touched, but she couldn't help but get in a jab, or two. "Kurt, hon, you don't have to fear the vagina. Besides, Quinn-," she almost made the mistake of saying that Quinn would kill her if she had a stripper at her bachelorette party, but she caught herself. No need for everyone and their mother to know how much power Quinn wielded over her.

"I don't _fear_ the v-jay," he said, drawing the word out, "I just think they're gross."

"You do realize that you came from one, right?"

He shuddered. "Don't remind me."

"Are you really going to go to Quinn's bachelorette party?" Santana thought about pulling out the 'but you're _my_ friend' card, and decided against it. "I would love to get together with you and Berry when you guys get here," Santana said, instead. She thought about her words, and reconsidered, "Just run that sentence through my sarcasm filter," she instructed.

"I always do," Kurt assured her. You couldn't be close friends with Santana this long without knowing how to be friends with her.

"So does that mean that Blaine will be joining us, then?" She already knew that she owed her 'bachelorette' party to Puck, and that meant that Jake would be there, as well as Brittany, Sugar (she hadn't actually been invited to the reception, Quinn had just gotten an RSVP back from her out of the blue), Sam (which wasn't _cool_ but it's not like he could go to Quinn's), Artie (see Sam), and Tina. Add in two of Santana's cousins, and Dex and Nichols from work, it was sure to be a party…just without any of that annoying singing that tended to happen whenever Rachel Berry was involved. And without a stripper.

 _Although_ …the last one had worked out pretty nicely.

"Santana!" Kurt said sharply.

She remembered she was still on the phone. She also remembered that she and Quinn weren't having sex at the moment so even if Quinn reprised her schoolmarm role, it wouldn't be half as fun, and she'd just end up with a sore bottom instead of jealous sex.

"Sorry, Kurt, got distracted. That sounds great."

There was a lull in the conversation. "Well?" Kurt finally demanded impatiently.

"Well what?"

"How'd you do it?"

"How did I do what?"

"The proposal!" Kurt said excitedly. "How'd you end up proposing? Please say you made a huge, grand gesture, declaring Quinn the love of your life, and perhaps a flash mob? Was there a flash mob?" Santana was disgusted by how utterly happy he was about the idea of that, when flash mobs had gone out of fashion just as quickly as they had gone into it.

"No, it wasn't a reprisal of the Klaine phenom. we were all subjected to participate in, Warbler. It was-,"

She paused. While Santana didn't usually have any reservations about the things she did, and she still felt like her proposal was brilliant, her proposal wasn't one that she actually felt like sharing with people. True, not everyone could have every show choir that they had ever competed against help sing a proposal, but still, most people might not understand her decision to propose to Quinn while they were in bed. Specifically, while they were getting busy. At the time of the proposal, however, Santana was using the bet between her and Puck as a ruse for the two of them to get married, and if Santana had gone all out, Quinn would have known that her feelings for Quinn were a lot deeper than she projected when she first proposed.

"Nice and quiet," she finished.

"Oh, God," Kurt gasped, please tell me you did not subject to her a _Santana Lopez special."_

Santana huffed. "I'll have you know, I can be very romantic."

"You proposed while having sex, didn't you?" Kurt gasped. " _Santan_ a! Do you not know who you married? Quinn's the kind of girl that needs a big, extravagant gesture."

"My proposal was fine," Santana said.

"Until it comes back to bite you on the ass 10 years down the line." Santana decided that Kurt didn't really know what he was talking about. Martin had simply proposed to Quinn while they were at a restaurant. There was no grand gesture behind his proposal, and anyway, there were extenuating circumstances with Santana's proposal. Quinn knew better, now, than to think that the two of them were only together because of a dollar bet. "I think you should re-propose," Kurt said. "I'll already coming early so it would be no hassle for me to plan out something fabulous, and Rachel-,"

"No, no, and no. This was all the Hobbit's idea, wasn't it? She just wants a chance to sing in front of a large crowd in public. I don't need another proposal, we're already married anyway, and Quinn knows me."

"I'm just saying," Kurt drawled. "It's that one moment every girl dreams about. Well, besides the wedding."

Santana wasn't worried there because between the moms and her, Quinn was getting the reception of her dreams. But the proposal. She was kind of regretting her proposal. She bit down on her lip. Damn Kurt! But if they were doing over the wedding, was it really that big of a stretch to do over the proposal too?

"I'll consider it, but no singing," Santana said, firmly. "And I mean that!"

"Oh, don't worry. I'll make sure Rachel knows. Just wait. Quinn's going to love it!" he said excitedly.

Santana hung up, feeling mildly excited about seeing the wonder twins again. Kurt hadn't really said anything she hadn't already been thinking about. She had long since thought about giving Quinn a…she didn't want to say _real_ proposal-because damn it, a sex-proposal was a good damn proposal-so not real, but a different one. One that made Quinn feel like a princess in a Disney movie, or some corny shit like that.

Quinn was one of those who needed to be shown over and over again that she was loved, because she wouldn't believe it the first ten dozen times she heard it, and even then she would doubt it. She wasn't someone you loved quickly, she was a slow burning love. Santana still had things worked out and planned for 5 and 20 years down the road to continuously show her just how much, and how long, she loved her. Santana hadn't _said_ the actual words, yet, because she knew Quinn wasn't ready to hear them, and wouldn't be until she could actually say the words herself. But she tried to show Quinn.

Surprising her with Phil, and Hazel, and her past, wasn't the best way, she knew, and there was honestly only so much of herself that she could give to her wife, so to make up for it, the parts that she could give, she wanted to give entirely. They were a work in progress, and for people like Quinn and Santana, that was the best thing for them; neither of them did-or knew how to trust- _easy._ They needed hard, they needed something to work for. If they had had a 'happily ever after' ending after they'd gotten married, they would have been divorced in a matter of years, maybe even months. That wasn't them. But…it didn't hurt to get a little sentimental every now and then.

She saw that she had a missed call, and that it was from Bryne. Well it was from a private number and the voicemail sounded like an old modem dialing up, so she knew it was from Bryne. Either that or it was Paulson, but Paulson usually left voicemails. She attempted to dial Bryne first, and got no answer, so she dialed Paulson who answered the phone almost immediately. "If you're calling to confirm that you got the tickets, you're a bit tardy in doing so."

"I'm not calling to do that; I didn't realize that was expected of me since it was delivered by signed courier."

"Will your wife be joining you?"

"No," Santana snapped, although this was technically her employer, and snapping was an occupational hazard.

"I _am_ sorry that your honeymoon is being interrupted, but your brand of expertise was needed, I didn't have another agent who is half as good, and as I said before, you're talking about a vacation; this, however, is a matter of national security." Santana wanted to roll her eyes because _everything_ was a matter of national security. "Did you upload the schematics?"

It was habit for Santana to look around, even though she knew that she was home alone. She sat down in front of her laptop, pulling up the files. "I did."

"I read your report, but I would still like to know what your take on it is?"

"It's apparent that the equipment has been tampered with, and within the past two weeks at that. If it were hot, you would have had me packing sooner, so why is it that we're sitting on this?"

"Because the second we touch it, it becomes known that someone was looking into it. Our target finds out, they get spooked and flee."

"Why the weekend of August 27th?"

"September 3rd the state fair is scheduled. Lots of trailers and big equipment moving around. Fireworks. Huge crowds, police will be occupied, emergency services will be tied up; if I were going to move something large and conspicuous, it would be the best time to do it."

"Is there a better visual on the back left corner of the warehouse? There was something there that I found suspect."

"No. It's blocked from view, and there's an overhang making it almost impossible to get a satellite image of it. Which is another reason why you're being sent there. Bryne will get close enough to get the images for you. I'm sending you some more information, as we speak."

"Okay, I'll take a look at it before I go into work and when I get off."

"I'll anticipate hearing back from you."

No more pleasantries were exchanged before the phone was hung up. Santana yawned, hoping that this didn't meant that this was the start of a very long day. She quickly texted her wife: _**Missed you this morning.**_ And added, _**I'll be looking forward to you making it up to me ;-).**_ To eliminate some of the sappiness she finished with a simple, _**Have a good day**_.

So Santana was sprung, sue her, but it really did suck waking up to an empty bed when you're used to waking up in someone's arms.

She decided: it was going to be a long day.

* * *

If looks could kill, Quinn would have been reduced to a pile of ashes where she stood. Melinda Lopez should have teamed up with Sue Sylvester when they were in high school, because in sheer ferociousness they were evenly yoked. Quinn didn't want to admit it, but Santana's grandmother had always been terrifying to her. When Quinn had attended mass with Santana and her abuela, Melinda had sat straight backed in the pew, one eye trained on the priest, the other trained on Santana, a wooden spoon in her purse ready to bring it down on the back of Santana's hand if she caught her misbehaving in church (granted, Santana did often misbehave in church). She was a no non-sense kind of woman. Not the grandma who would have cookies waiting for you, but the kind that you respectfully called 'ma'am', and you tiptoed around, and you cringed when she yelled your name but went rushing to see what she wanted whenever she did.

Just like she would never classify Russell as an exemplary man, there was no mistaking Melinda as a nice woman. She tacked insults on to the end of her sentences as if they were people's names. She was harsh and bitter, and sad…and Santana loved her almost as much as she loved her own mother. That was the thing about love. Melinda may have been mean and insulting, most people may not have found anything redeeming in her, but the people that loved her, loved her in despite of her faults. Whenever Santana talked about her abuela, whether it be an anecdote about learning how to ride a bike, or something unflattering her abuela said to her, it was said mostly fondly. Quinn was sure that if the grandmother was anything like the granddaughter, then there were two Melinda Lopezes, the woman Melinda had to be for the world, and then the private Melinda.

Quinn wanted to see the good that Santana saw in her abuela. But she didn't see any now. All she saw was nearly familiar brown eyes narrowed in anger, with a look of outright disgust twisting her features. Mrs. Lopez's body quietly shook. "How _dare_ you," she seethed. "How dare you come to my home, and stand there, and…and steal a claim my dear Antonio's name?!"

It was Quinn's go-to emotion to snap back when someone snapped at her, but she knew in this situation that would be the worst thing possible. She willed herself to stay calm. "I didn't steal anything. I _took_ Santana's name when we got married."

"Married!" Mrs. Lopez spit, actually spit, to the side of Quinn. "I don't know what you and Santana think you're doing, but whatever it is, it isn't marriage. It's filth, that's what it is, and that you would dare to even sully my Antonio's memory by coming here!"

Melinda looked as if perhaps she would enjoy very much strangling Quinn. Quinn resisted the urge to take a step back, standing her ground. "With all due respect, Mrs. Lopez, when you have kids and give them a name, it is theirs to either keep or give away. Santana chose to give hers away to me, and I chose to keep it. She chose to invite me into her family, into your family,"

"Your depravity will never be a part of my family. I want you gone, now!"

"I came here to talk to you."

"This is private property, and you are trespassing. If you don't leave now-"

"I'm only asking for five minutes of your time."

"I want you gone!"

"I'm not leaving without saying what I came here to say." A bit of the Fabray temper won out. "If you won't listen to me say it quietly, respectfully, I will stand out on the sidewalk and shout it for all of your neighbors to hear."

"Respect?" Mrs. Lopez shrieked while somehow still managing to keep her voice down. "You kids today, you know nothing of respect. I would have never had the audacity to stand there so impudently in front of my elders, and demand that they listen to filth, or threaten them in their own home."

Quinn had a moment of pause; Melinda had a point. To an extent. "I didn't mean that to be a threat, I am asking you, please, for Santana, to listen to me. Family means a lot to your granddaughter. It means everything to her."

"If Santana cared anything about her family she wouldn't have dared to bring such shame to it!"

"Your granddaughter is one of the most tenacious, courageous, and secretly generous people that I know. She puts others first before she thinks of herself. She is a protector, she is charitable, and she can be very kind, which is everything that she was raised to be. She is a beautiful person that you are refusing to extend even common human courtesy to because she doesn't fit into some mold that you have cast for her. If that is shameful…"

"She turned her back on God; she turned her back on her family."

"No, _you_ turned your back on her! Her secret, private, business was aired for everyone in Ohio to see, and you couldn't even extend a set of arms for her to rush into. Instead you cast her aside and told her that you didn't want to see her anymore. That she was no longer worthy, as a human being, for human comfort. For love."

"We all have our crosses to bear. This world is cruel and unjust, that is fact. Do you think that I did everything that I wanted to do? No, I knew that life was about sacrifice, about sucking it up and keeping your shame to yourself."

"You refer to her as if she murdered someone!" Melinda bit on her inner cheek; Quinn could see how in her eyes it was one in the same. "When we were in high school, one of our classmates, David Karofsky, attempted to kill himself because he was so shamed for being gay that he decided that he didn't want to live anymore." This statement was met with a frown, a turn down of the lips on Melinda's part. _Good_ , seemed to radiate from her unforgiving frame.

"When we found out, our teacher had us all think about the things that we wanted to live for, and you know what your granddaughter said?" Melinda's features turned haughty. "She didn't say that she wanted to live to 'curse god', as you would probably claim, or to grow up and get married, and have kids, or spend the rest of her life with her girlfriend. The thing that Santana said that she was living for was the day that you loved her again."

There was a flicker of recognition in Mrs. Lopez's eyes, but then they hardened just as quickly. "She made her choice," Melinda repeated, slower this time. "If she had any respect for her family-,"

"She would, what? Stop existing? Santana didn't choose this, but even if she did, so what? Why is it so bad that she loves differently than you?"

"Because it is against God!" Melinda said fiercely. "It is clear: _any man who lies with man as he would with a woman, the two have done something detestable. They must be executed; their blood is on their own hands_."

Quinn nodded solemnly. "Okay," she said. "So would you like to kill her with stones or with a shotgun?"

Melinda looked startled. "What?"

"You just said it: she obviously must be executed. And since you feel the offence is against you, it's only fair that you lead the charge. That's what you want right? So will it be death by stoning or do you want a clean kill, simple bullet to the head?"

Mrs. Lopez scowled. "Don't be ridiculous girl."

"That is what you just said. Her sin is so great that she must die for it, and also burn in hell. For eternity. Do you know why we don't abide by Old Testament rules? Because if we did, we'd have three people left on this planet. Because all of that stoning, and casting out, and avenging that the Old Testament talks about just creates a bloodlust that there's no cure for."

"It's condemned in the New Testament, too."

Quinn nodded. "You're right. I think it is mentioned… _3_ or 4 times in the New Testament. 7 times total in the bible. 7. It mentions forgiveness more than 10 times that, and it mentions love something like 551 times, so you tell me, which is more important? I grew up in the church, I've read my bible from front to back. I know what it says. I know what it says about being gay, and I know how it's interpreted. I also know what it says about false prophets, about calling something unclean after it's been made clean, and casting the first stone. But none of that matters because no one gets to say with the utmost sincerity that they know the actual will of God, or that your belief in a God means that Santana and I, or anyone else gets to fall underneath your judgment."

Quinn could see the shutting down that always seemed to be there whenever you questioned someone's faith, and honestly, that wasn't what she came her for. Quinn hadn't given up on her faith; she still believed. She just didn't solely believe that Christianity had it all right, and everyone else was wrong, nor did anyone have the right to try to foist their own beliefs on someone else just because it was what they believed.

Quinn decided to change tactics, slightly. "You loved your husband, correct?"

Her back straightened, and her head jutted up. "Yes, I did."

"Ever since you were a teenager, Santana said. You loved him so much that even after he died, you still carry him with you."

Melinda frown/smiled. "He was a _good_ man."

"How would you have felt if you had been told that it was wrong for you to love him, that God condemned your love for him? That you weren't worthy of your grandmother's love because you loved him? Or, while you were busy mourning the one great love of your life, someone told you that he was burning in hell, and it was good that he was dead because there's one last of him in the world?"

"Our love was not an abomination unto God!"

"He was of a different nationality than you, wasn't he? There's bible verses against that. How is it that your relationship is sanctioned by God, and ours isn't? Are you so confident that you know God's will that you can speak for him? Our love is just as worthy of recognition, as validity.

"I cannot say without a shadow of a doubt that I'm the love of Santana's life, but she's the love of mine. I have waited my whole life to know a love like she gives me. It is because I love her that I'm standing here in front of you. She wants you to come to our reception, she wants you to be there. You are her family, and you always will be. She's not asking you for your acceptance, just your attendance."

Melinda shuffled impatiently. Quinn knew it was time to wrap it up. "No matter how slighted you feel, Santana will always be your granddaughter. And while you want to stew over supposed wrongs against you, I want to remind you what Jesus said in the parable of sheep and goats: 'Depart from me, you who are cursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels. For I was hungry and you gave me nothing to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink, I was a stranger and you did not invite me in, I needed clothes and you did not clothe me, I was sick and in prison and you did not look after me. They also will answer, 'Lord, when did we see you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or needing clothes or sick or in prison, and did not help you?' "He will reply, 'Truly I tell you, whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me.'"

Quinn handed the woman an invitation to the reception. Honestly, she expected Mrs. Lopez to drop it on the ground, maybe step on it a few times, but she didn't. Her hand tightened angrily around the paper. "You can go now," she said abruptly.

Quinn wondered if there was anything else she could say. She had given it her best shot. "Thank you for listening," she finally mustered, before she turned back towards her car, and started the drive to Columbus.

* * *

Santana checked her cell, subconsciously looking for a text from Quinn that just wasn't there. Santana stomach grumbled and she fired off a text. _**Lunch? You can pick.**_ She waited for 15 minutes for a response, and when she didn't get one, she sent out another text, this time to a different recipient. **Meet me for lunch?**

She didn't have to wait long for an answer. **Your treat** _ **?**_

Santana bit down on her lip. **Of course.**

She received an answering text with the name of the restaurant, and a time. Quinn still hadn't answered her by the time she was walking into Whiskey Saigon. Whiskey was mostly a night club, but ever since 2014, during the day they ran a restaurant, and of course it would be here that she'd want to go because of its proximity to the college. Santana quickly scanned the space, getting a feel for her surroundings.

She felt a hand on the small of her back and almost stiffened but caught herself just in time. Santana went to her calm place, a beachside resort on some deserted island, that somehow had room service, and of course, Quinn beside her. It was ironic, in a way. When she had nothing to be angry about, she was always angry and lashed out at nearly everyone. Now that she had plenty to be angry about, she had obtained some Zen about the whole thing. _This is necessary_ , she reminded herself.

Santana plastered a smile on her face, and worked really hard to make it seem genuine. "Hi, Jenna," Santana greeted her. As much as she didn't want to be anywhere near Jenna, this situation wasn't a schoolyard fight, and Santana didn't need Jenna thinking she was an enemy.

Jenna stepped around at the same time Santana turned so that they could face each other. Jenna's eyes took in Santana, unashamedly checking her out. "Santana. I was a little surprised by your invitation."

They were seated away from the front entrance. "I wanted to apologize," Santana explained calmly. Jenna looked surprised by the statement. Jenna knew the depths of Santana's anger. She also knew that Santana had a healthy fear of her. "Let's blame my outburst on the alcohol."

Jenna gave her a scrutinizing look while at the same time managing to seem haughty. "Let's say that was the issue. What makes you want to apologize?"

Santana gave a casual shrug of the shoulder. "We live in the same city; we need to be able to get along with each other. We used to."

Jenna seemed to be considering Santana's words. Santana knew who Jenna knew, Jenna only _thought_ that she knew who Santana knew. Santana also had some pretty damning physical evidence against Jenna, too, that Santana had once shown to her. Jenna completely had the upper hand in the situation, but she didn't know that.

"To be honest, baby gay, there's no animosity at all on my end." She shrugged. "I tried to pick up a girl, she decided not to go home with me." Jenna apparently was feeling generous. "If I had to take a guess, I'd say she was only interested because we resemble each other."

Santana resisted every urge to bite her lip at that statement. Jenna gave Santana the elevator eye, shaking her head in disappointment. "It is a shame the way things happened between us. If you ever change your mind," Jenna said, leadingly.

"I know where to find you." Santana forced a smile on her face. "The sex would've been hot, but you know I've got a thing for blondes." Jenna laughed, and Santana gave a lighter one in return.

"I just don't get that," she said as an aside. "Never found a blonde I found attractive. Except for your wife."

"She' not a natural blonde."

"That'd probably explain it," Jenna said with a chuckle. "We're cool, baby gay." Santana gave a firm nod. They shook hands. Jenna gave a slight chuckle. "Maybe I should stop calling you that, because you're finally growing up. You see how easy things can get resolved when you don't act like some whiny bitch?"

Santana managed to make it through lunch, but as soon as she and Jenna had parted ways, Santana rushed to the closest bathroom and emptied the contents of her stomach.

* * *

Quinn pulled up in front of Russell's house shortly after 1:00. She had only visited her father here a handful of times, and each time was as unnerving as the last. The woman that Russell had left Judy for had probably looked something like Quinn did when she was in the middle of her skank days, except she had purple hair, instead of pink, and had far more tattoos. Quinn had never met the woman, hadn't even so much as entertained a phone call from Russell for all of junior, and most of her senior year, and by then Russell had moved on to a woman who had an uncanny resemblance to Emma Pillsbury. She was who Russell was currently with, and every day that passed she kept anticipating the phone call from Frannie, or her mother, letting her know she had a sibling on the way.

Russell's wife, whose name was Prudence, of all things, appeared in the doorway after Quinn cut the engine, a warm smile on her face, her red hair shining brightly in the afternoon sun. "Quinn!" she called excitedly, her light gray eyes sparkling even though Quinn had never mustered anything more than a grimace at this woman. "I'm so glad you came to visit! I'm on my way back to work, so that should give you and Russ some privacy, but I made a lunch for you, and it's waiting on the table. He's happy that you're here, you know. Oh, by the way, congratulations on your marriage to Santana!"

It rubbed Quinn all kinds of wrong at this woman's statements though it surprised her that the woman was so cavalier about her marriage to Santana. I guess the tattoo-covered purple-headed freak had loosened her father's overly religious boots.

"Thank you," Quinn said politely. Prudence gave her one last smile before she got into her car and backed out of the driveway.

Quinn looked at the door that was left open, and faced it with a sense of dread. She had to do this, thogh, as a good will gesture to her wife. In the slightly longer than an hour and a half drive from Lima to Columbus, Quinn had had a lot of time to think. She had reamed her wife for Santana wanting her to at least attempt to make amends with her father, but the arguments that she had come up with for why Santana's abuela should make amends for Santana made her a bit of a hypocrite. How could he tell Melinda that she was wrong for disowning her granddaughter, when Quinn refused her father's audience? And she really did want to resolve some of her issues with Russell because he couldn't be hanging over her life, and her marriage the entire time. The only thing was, it was easy to say you're going to do this when you're miles away, but being here was different.

She must have been standing outside for a considerable amount of time because Russell appeared in the doorway. "Foods getting cold, Lucy. You can do your thinking in front of a nice meal as well as you can on the sidewalk."

Quinn forced her feet to propel her forward. Her father stepped back enough to let her walk by, before leading her into the kitchen. The house wasn't much different than the one that she had grown up in; a little smaller since it was just him and Prudence. The floor plan was similar enough that Quinn could have found the dining room on her own, even.

This was the life that she had wanted, she thought as she followed in Russell's footsteps. This was the life she would have had with Martin, with Biff, with maybe everyone else but Puck. A house with crown modeling, and granite countertops; a house made from a model that looked just like every other house in the neighborhood with the exception of a breakfast nook here, or a grand room there.

"You blew me away, when you called," Russell told her as she sat down. He pushed her chair in. "I was glad to hear from you, Lucy. I miss you."

"Quinn," Quinn corrected.

He apologized. "I still forget, from time to time. Quinn."

"I want you to know, I'm only here because of Santana," Quinn blurted. Russell cocked an eyebrow, and waited for her to go on. "She thinks that I should invite you to the reception. I don't want to."

Russell dipped his spoon into the soup, his eyes on his youngest daughter. "I figured that may have been the case when I didn't receive an invite. Any particular reason?"

"I don't want you to come. I don't want you in my life. I want to forget about you. Forget about what you did. At times I'm almost positive that I hate you."

Methodically, Russell continued to eat, but his eyes never left Quinn's, and she was distracted by it enough to marvel how not even a drop didn't make it to his mouth. She could only imagine what was going through Russell's mind because his face didn't show expression. "Santana and my first big fight was over you," Quinn went on.

Russell finally spoke, "I'm sorry to hear that."

"She was insistent that you come to the reception, and I couldn't understand why she didn't understand why I was against it."

The spoon went back down to the bowl, but this time it stayed there. Russell looked older than Quinn remembered, She wondered when was the last time that she had actually just stopped to take her father in. His face was lined, tired, his build more round than it had been when she was a kid growing up. He wasn't as imposing as he used to be, but he was still her father.

"If you don't want me there, Quinn, then I won't be."

"Why do you _want_ to be there?" Quinn demanded. That was the thing she couldn't figure out. This was the man who had kicked her out of the house. Who told her she was no longer his daughter, and didn't check to find out that she was okay, that she was taken care of, that his pregnant daughter wasn't on the street.

"I know you think that I'm this huge, evil guy, Quinn, but I did what I thought was best."

"You threw me out on the streets!"

"Because I was blind-sided. I thought I was sitting down to a meal with my daughter's new beau, and I find out that she's pregnant. You lied to us Quinn! I didn't even know that you were having sex."

"How is that your business?"

"It's my business because you were living under my roof, and until you turned 18 years old you were my legal responsibility. I could actually go to jail for the things that you do, and as your father, you weren't just my legal responsibility; I had a moral responsibility to you. To raise you with the proper set of values that would carry you throughout life."

"Because casting someone away who displeases you is the proper way to parent."

"I made a mistake; I shouldn't have done that. I shouldn't have left Judy, either. Adults do go through things, too, Quinn. I was going through something at that time. I felt suffocated by my marriage, and by my family, and I was an ass. All I can say to that is that I'm sorry. If you want to be mad at me for the rest of my life because of the way I raised you, then that will make me incredibly said, but I'd understand. _I_ don't really like my parents. Any time I cried, or I hurt myself, or I wasn't tough enough, my father would yell at me to 'be a man'. When I disobeyed, I got the belt, or sometimes even a tree branch. I was raised to be the best, to do the best. Everything that I did was a reflection of the Fabray name.

"That's how I was raised, so that's how I raised you and your sister. You don't just turn 18 and suddenly shed everything that made you up in the years prior. It never occurred to me that there was anything wrong with the way I was raised. It wasn't to the same standards as maybe everyone else, maybe, but I was a Fabray, and Fabray's stood above the rest. I might not have liked the way that I was raised, but I still loved my parents. If I were to ask my mom or dad why they raised me the way they did, they would tell me that they did what they did out of love.

"There's no manual, Quinn. You're a mother, now, so you know that. You getting pregnant, I saw that as my failure. I grew up believing that the man is the spiritual head of the household, that it is my duty to see to your mental, physical, and spiritual well-being. You getting pregnant I saw as my own failure. My failure to parent you, my failure to protect you. My failure to help you be everything that you were meant to be."

"You never seemed too concerned with me before. Not until I became Quinn."

Russell shook his head. "You're _six_ years younger than Frannie. Your first kid, you wear kid gloves. You chase after them with every footstep, you pick them up every time they fall, and you worry about everyone who comes within 20 feet of your child. You're uptight, and you make mistakes. Your next kid, you don't freak out as much. You're more relaxed. You might miss filling in every page of their baby book but that doesn't mean that you don't love them _just_ as much.

"I apologize for the moments where I fell short, or where you feel I fell short, but I won't apologize for being hard with you, because look at you. You've got a decent, well-paying job with lots of potential, you graduated from _two_ Ivy League Schools, and you have the presence of mind to go after what you want. The jury's still out on that girl that you chose to marry-,"

"She's a woman," Quinn corrected, "not a girl, and she's my wife. If you can't show her that respect, then-,"

Russell chuckled, softly. "Quinnie. I meant no disrespect, I only meant that I don't know her very well. I…didn't allow myself to get to know her when you two were teenagers. I let my prejudice against her, and her family cloud any opportunity I ever had to get to know her as you two grew up. It's good, that you stand up for her. I'm glad you found someone that you love, Quinn, I really, really am."

"Thank you," Quinn said, sincerely.

"And judging by the way I saw her look at you the day that you got married, and the talking to she gave me, I can tell that she really loves you, too."

Quinn nodded. "She drives me bat-shit crazy, and I swear I want to strangle her every other day, but she's mine. She's mine, and I want to love her. I want to be able to be honest, and open with her," _as much as I can, anyway,_ she verbally amended, "but I don't know how. I've never felt loved. I never felt like I was important enough to anyone for someone to _want_ to love me. And I can't help thinking, that there's some ulterior motive. I'm scared to hope, to be vulnerable, to let myself go because of all the crap that's happened to me in the past.

"I can't be _happy_ with my life, because I don't trust happiness."

Russell looked at his daughter, his youngest. "Love is fear," he spoke. "Otherwise it wouldn't be called the most courageous act. Your mother and I, we weren't lovers. We weren't even really friends. We just were. We settled for each other because Judy was what I was supposed to want in a wife, and I was what Judy was supposed to want. I wish, I wish I could tell you, that everything's going to work out, that your marriage will last forever, that it all falls into place, but it doesn't. There's no such thing as perfection. I'm learning that. But even still, just because it doesn't exist, there's nothing wrong with striving for it anyway. With _wanting_ that. It's what we all do, day in and day out. Strive.

"And I didn't raise you to give up."

* * *

Santana was playing on her system when Quinn walked into the door at 7:48. "Hey, babe," Santana greeted, as soon as the front door opened. She gave a look over the couch, smiling. "Puck, gotta go, wife's home." Santana appeared to be listening to something Puck was saying. Her eyes didn't leave Quinn's. "So what if I am?" she challenged. "Lopez out." The game shut off.

"Hi," Quinn greeted her wife. Her eyes took in Santana, starting with the top of her hair, and moving down as far as she could before her body was blocked by the couch. God, but she was beautiful. So, so very beautiful. "How was your day?"

Santana grimaced. "Terrible. I woke up, and your big ass was all gone. What am I supposed to do with a pillow fort? I can't cuddle with your lumpy pillows."

Quinn moved toward the couch. "Is that you finally admitting that you like to cuddle?"

Santana blew out a breath. "I only do it for your benefit," she said, dismissively. "Hey, before you sit down, can you grab me a beer?"

Quinn blinked. "Are you serious, San? You've been home for four hours, and you wait until I get home to want a beer?"

"No!" Santana said indignantly. "I just thought about it when you walked through the door. Your plate's waiting for you in the microwave, so you have to go in there to get it anyway, and I figure, hey, kill two birds with one stone."

Quinn shook her head, heading past the couch. "Hey wait-!" Santana called, reaching for Quinn at the same time. She hooked her hand, and pulled her on to the couch. Santana nuzzled her on the neck. "Mmm, now that's better." Quinn silently agreed, relaxing into her wife's embrace. "I missed this all day long," she spoke softly into Quinn's soft skin. "You didn't return my text."

"I was driving when you sent it, and you know how I am about texting and driving."

Santana nodded. "Yes, I know."

"When I saw it, too much time had passed. I would have loved to have lunch with you, though. I thought about you all day."

Santana placed a kiss on her neck. "Did you, babe?"

Quinn nodded. "Were you thinking about how terrible of a wife I am?" Again, Quinn nodded. "That was it exactly." She turned towards her wife, turning her head so they were looking into each other's eyes. "You've been _so_ terrible," she said sarcastically.

Santana's eyes lit up. "I've been really naughty haven't…damn it!"

Quinn smiled when she realized the reason for Santana's expletive. "Now you know how I feel," she said blithely.

"I do know how you feel," Santana agreed, but it was obvious by the look on her face that she meant something different than what Quinn had meant. Santana was Santana, and Santana had gone for the sexual. "I know how you feel when you're clenching around me right before you come, when you're pulling my hair, and begging me not to stop." She winked. "Yep, I know exactly how you feel."

Just for good measure, she slipped a finger in her mouth, and damn, this woman. _For better or worse_.

Santana gave Quinn an uncertain smile when Quinn didn't react to what Santana said, only stared at her as if blinking had gone out of style. She gave a semi-nervous chuckle. "Your staring's starting to creep me out, baby. I know I'm like that hotness, but you're looking like you want to make a mask of my face, and that's some creepy 'A' shit. Plus, you need to eat, because I can hear your tummy grumbling, and I need my beer, and if you hurry back, I'll massage your back while you eat, because I'm feeling generous."

Quinn got up, but Santana decided to get up with her, her hand not leaving her waist, penguin- walking her into the kitchen. After Quinn set the time for the microwave, she turned in Santana's arms so she could see her. "You're being clingy."

"I'm not," Santana protested.

"What'd you do now?"

Santana plastered an angelic smile on her face. "Nothing. I woke up without you, and I'm making up for lost time. It really threw off my day. You keep me warm. Why'd you leave out so early?"

"There was something that I had to do."

Santana appeared to think about it. "Did you do it?"

Quinn nodded. "I think so, yeah. How was your day?"

"I told you, crappy." Her face lit up. "Oh…but guess who called me today."

"Who?"

"Kurt."

"Really?"

"Yep."

"What about?"

"Just about him and Blaine coming a little early. I learned something valuable today, too. Want to hear it?"

"What's that?"

"Everybody talks too much," Santana whispered, before she wrapped her arms around Quinn's neck, and pressed her lips to Quinn's in a kiss that didn't seem likely to end any time soon.


	29. The Goldies

"Babe! Have you seen my cross-trainers?"

"Did you check underneath the bed?"

 _Did I check underneath the bed?_ "Yeah, duh, Quinn it's the first place I checked."

"Then, no," Quinn snapped. "But if you left them-,"

"I swear I will punch you in your jaw if you finish that statement Fabray! Lopez," was added as an afterthought, and as stupid as it sounded, she was seriously contemplating stealing Flopez from Puck.

Santana went back into the bedroom, nearly tearing it apart before she, on a whim, went and checked underneath the bed. Irritated, Santana snatched the shoes up and went marching into the kitchen, her cross-trainers held out threateningly in front of her. Quinn looked too smug for her liking. "Did you hide my shoes?" Santana demanded, shaking the object of contention.

Quinn turned slightly away from the stove. "Just trying to prove a point," she remarked.

"What, that you're a control freak! I already knew that! Of course I couldn't find my shoes, you hid them!"

"How many times do I have to tell you to find a spot to put them in and stick with it?"

"I'll stick with…," Santana grimaced rather than finish that statement. She sat down in the middle of the kitchen floor, and stuffed her feet into her shoes.

Quinn watched her wife. "Really, San?"

Santana scowled in return. "Yes, really. I'm running late as it is, and I _don't_ want to hear Lady Hummel's mouth. ' _Santana! I told you three times last night alone what time our flight gets in!_ Quinn bit back a grin because her impersonation of their friend was spot on. "Why _I'm_ the one who has to pick up Tweedle Pale and Tweedle Short-Pants when they're staying with Mercedes is anyone's guess, and Berry's going to be showing up this afternoon, and the moms tomorrow," Santana breathed out. "Whose idea was it to ever have friends or family?"

Quinn couldn't hide the amusement on her face. She shook her head at her wife, and continued cooking. "You know you wouldn't be so frantic if you had actually gotten up this morning, and didn't wait until the last minute."

"No, I'm frantic because my _dear_ _wife_ hid my shoes from me to prove a point, and because there are going to be _way_ too many perky people here in just a matter of days, and our moms will be here, and the caterers can't seem to get anything right, and you changed your mind about the wedding cake _three_ times."

"Two!" Quinn protested.

"So then, what, that third call was just because you talked to her so many times that you decided to ask her out?"

"No…yesterday I talked to her about the Groom's cake, _not_ the wedding cake," Quinn said in an exacting voice.

Santana peered up at her wife, her eyes narrowing. "You what?!"

Quinn matched her glower. "A vagina red velvet cake, Santana? On what planet do you think I'd actually allow that?"

Santana bit down on her lip, outraged. "I don't give a flying monkey's red ass what you'd _allow_! It's supposed to be _my_ cake!"

Quinn turned the stove off and set the pan on a cooler burner. "How do you figure that?"

"Hello? _Groom_!"

Quinn rolled her eyes. "There is no groom, there's two brides, and I thought we settled this once and for all." She pointed to herself. "Me, butch." She pointed to Santana. "You bitch."

"I highly doubt that anyone who knows all the words to _Love, Actually_ can seriously be called butch."

"It's a touching movie! At least I don't know the difference between 'love me tender pink' and 'salmon rose'!"

"If you did know the difference between the two, I would certainly get more orgasms," Santana mumbled in a low voice."

Quinn pointed the spatula at Santana. "What?"

"You owned more than one picture of the _Backstreet Boys_!"

"You cried during sex."

Santana's mouth opened and shut. "Because I was hap…I mean, I did not! Those were rain follicles! Kari warriors don't cry." Quinn snorted, while still managing to give Santana her 'aww' face. "Quinn, if you're butch, Ellen DeGeneres is femme."

"Oh, and you are?"

"I know how to shoot a gun."

"That doesn't make you butch; that makes you a Republican."

"Actually, I'm apolitical. There's not a shred of difference between either of the political parties, they just pretend that there is so you feel like voting actually matters, and you're getting off track when the matter at hand is that you had no right to change _my_ cake."

"We agreed on the wedding cake, so we should agree on the Groom's cake as well, and I don't agree that that's the cake that I want my nana, or my old teacher, or our old cheerleading coach, and the moms to see."

Santana jutted a finger at Quinn. "Not cool, Quinn. I want you to know that." Santana jumped up. "I'm out," she said.

"You're not going to eat anything first?" Quinn protested, motioning to the pan.

 _"I'm late_!" Santana reminded her.

"Fine, go," Quinn snapped. "See you later."

Santana shook her head. "Un-freaking-believable, Fabray." She picked up one of the toasted English muffins, and scooped up a ladle full of the concoction that Quinn had been cooking up. The only part of it Santana seemed to be able to identify was the chunks of potato. She took a reluctant bite. "Happy, dear?" she questioned, through a mouthful.

When she started to leave again, Quinn reached for her arm. "Hey?"

"What now?" Santana demanded testily."

"Promise me that no matter how crazy this week gets, that you'll still meet me at the end of the aisle next Saturday."

Santana grimaced, but her face softened. "Gee, I don't know, Quinn, you've really been getting on my nerves lately!" But she smiled, before placing an obligatory kiss against her wife's cheek. Quinn let go of her arm, and the both of them rolled their eyes at the other as Santana walked away from her.

Of course she was late, and of course Kurt had to say something about it, but then they hugged it out and all was forgiven. Kurt was still without facial hair, but he had gotten muscular and filled out a little, and Blaine, well Blaine was still Blaine. How he managed to get away with wearing such short, tight ass pants with a fashion designer (albeit a starting out one) for a husband was anyone's guess. (Santana suspected it was because Blaine was the bottom in that relationship, and Kurt just liked watching his ass). He was now sporting a thin goatee, and his hair was short, curly, and without any gel product.

"You look good, Santana," Blaine complimented her.

"Very… _married_ chic," Kurt added.

Santana scowled because of the words, and also because she'd forgotten that Kurt and Blaine tended to agree on _way_ too much, and finished each other's sentences. "Yeah, whatever," she mumbled. "Let's get your bags and get on with it!"

Kurt smirked. "I don't know why you still insist on pretending that you don't enjoy my company, when I know how much you do!"

Santana gave him a smile back. "Because I don't," she lied.

"Oh, sure, remember Barcelona?"

Blaine gave Kurt a playful tap. "Honey, you didn't tell me you and Santana went to Spain."

Both Santana and Kurt tried very, very hard to hold in their laughter, but it was impossible. Kurt reached for Blaine's hand. "Not the city, dear. Barcelona was a girl."

They stowed their bags in the back of Santana's car, and she took them to one of her favorite places to grab a casual meal. They had barely sat down with their food before Kurt stretched out in an over the top sprawl.

"My _God_ , it's so nice to be out without the twins, for once," Kurt gushed over his cucumber, sprouts, and avocado open-faced sandwich. Like Santana, he still fell back into periodic spurts of vegetarianism. Kurt gave a knowing look at Blaine. "Don't get me wrong, I love the twins-,"

"Oh especially when little Tray does that waddle walk, right honey?"

Kurt slapped a hand over his mouth. "Oh, my God Santana, you have to see Tray do the waddle walk!"

Blaine jumped up, and stuck out his butt as if that was cute from anyone other than a 2 and a ½ year old. Santana fondly remembered Phillip at that same age. He would follow her around like a little puppy, chattering insistently in hardly distinguishable syllables that halfway resembled words.

Blaine continued to do the walk for a little longer before he realized that they were in a restaurant-like setting. Kurt smiled brightly at his husband, reaching for his hand. "Like I was saying, I love the twins, I really do, but this week is going to be _so_ nice not having to run after two little demonic angels who seem to think that it's funny to pay with daddy's hand-loomed worsted wool when he's in his studio."

Blaine laughed, and Kurt chuckled, and Santana could just picture that someday this would be her and Quinn. Santana wondered if a little girl that had Quinn's genes would be the prim and proper, seemingly never get in trouble, except in really big ways type like her mommy was, or would Santana's influence turn him or her into a little hellion. Santana could just see that happening even though Phil had turned out to be a really good kid so far; Hazel wasn't the only person who was responsible for Phil's good-behavior. She might have only been around him a 1/10th of the time Hazel was, but when she was around him, she taught him well, making sure he said his 'please's' and 'thank-you's', and was respectful.

Santana wondered how Kurt and/or Blaine would react if she told them that she had a child. If she pulled out pictures of Phil, and shared with them little anecdotes about him. How he went through a naked phase after they first moved to Framingham. For a considerable amount of time (enough to cause permanent headaches) he'd absolutely refused to wear clothes, and getting them on him usually resulted in a very frustrated Hazel, Santana, and Phil. This was when Santana had earned Phil's 'mama', back when she would go over just about every day, and even spend the night sometimes.

But Santana didn't have any pictures to show, and she couldn't tell some of her oldest friends about him, because Phil was a secret that could never be shared.

"Oh, no need to scowl, Santana. At that age they can hardly help it!"

Until Kurt said those words she had been unaware that she was scowling, she hadn't even been aware of the conversation that was going on, which made her grimace some more. Luckily, before she had to come up with an excuse, or apologize away her behavior, her phone went off in her pocket. "Sorry, guys, I have to get this," she informed them before ducking away from the table. "Hello?"

As usual, pleasantries were disregarded. "You should have just received some images to your email. Are you near your computer?"

"No, I'm out with friends. What'd you send?"

"Some different angles for that back corner."

Santana slipped her ear piece in. "Give me a second, I'll see if I can open them on my phone." Santana opened her emails, and the attached, encrypted file. "How did you get this visual?"

"Toy plane with an attached camera."

Santana puffed out her lips at how low tech it all sounded. "A toy plane?"

"A modified drone, silent, but it looks like a kids' toy. It worked, and it was better than the kite idea, so you're welcome."

Santana studied the image sent, surprised by how clear the picture was. The back corner of the warehouse was the loading dock. With the exception of the pile of crates that were stacked up, neatly, against the back of the wall, for the back of a warehouse it was eerily clean. It made the crates look out of place. They looked old, like junk. But the locks looked sparkling new. Santana chewed on her lip, because it seemed that of all the warehouses that she had been sent information about, what they were looking for was probably in this one.

"The dimensions are right for it, and the dent that's on the dock door? It looks like it could have been made by the stamping equipment," Santana said, mostly to herself. "That edge looks to match the one from the equipment. Is this really being sat on?" She shouldn't complain, because it wasn't she would be in Arizona right now, instead of hanging out with her friend and his husband.

"I'm sure you've already been told about the fair, and about moving such equipment. It would take,"

Santana quickly did the math in her head, "Six 18 wheelers, and would need a crane. Plus they'd probably want to move them all together. That's a lot of activity for an otherwise rarely used warehouse park. I know."

"It's not the equipment the house is worried about. They want to know who's moving it. That's why it's being sat on."

"Ok. Thanks for keeping me up dated."

"I'll let you know if anything else surfaces. Good luck on your wedding!"

Santana gave a slight chuckle. Funny how she was more nervous about the upcoming week than the three that would take place after that. "Thanks," she said, darkly. "I'm going to need it."

Santana returned back to the table, to a frustrated Kurt. "I thought we had a no phone at the table rule," he scolded.

"When we were living together in the Hummelpezberry loft. Besides, that was work, and I had to get it. It's written into my contract."

Kurt rolled his eyes. "Oh, puh-lease…we _all_ have people constantly trying to keep in contact with us, but both Blaine and I have agreed to unplug, because we realize how important it is to just 'be' sometimes."

"Well, Hummel, I do apologize for taking a call that would allow me to keep my job, but thanks for the lecture. Did I miss Warbler shaking his ass at some more of the guests?"

"I wasn't shaking my ass as you so inelegantly put it, I was showing Tray's dance," Blaine huffed.

"Well, how about I make you a deal. You don't do that-," she gestured, "again, and you will have my halfway divided attention the entire time that you're here?"

"Need I remind you that I am here early, so that we can finalize the plans for _you're_ engagement?"

Santana sighed, and her face softened. "Oh, right. That was _nice_ of you to do that," she said begrudgingly. Kurt brought sketch books onto the table, and went through his plan. Santana liked it, but she thought something was missing from the whole thing. It was already going to be a little awkward because Santana didn't have a ring. There was no way that she could get it off of Quinn's finger without it going unnoticed, and the ring was the thing she did right with her proposal. Quinn should have her abuela's ring. She was certain about that.

"Considering that this is supposed to happen in two days, there's not much time to change things now."

"I know!" Santana admitted. "I just want it to be perfect, and it seems like something's missing."

"Well, if you were going to be surprised with a proposal, how would you want it to be done?" Kurt questioned practically.

Santana's eyes darted around the restaurant. "If you tell anyone I said this, I will deny it with my last breath, and then come choke you, but you know that scene in _Enchanted?_ "

"Really, Santana?" Kurt demanded. Santana felt her cheeks burn in anticipation of Kurt teasing her. " _Know it_?" Kurt repeated. "I _live_ it. Would you really?" he questioned, curiously. He didn't seem like he was teasing her, and for that Santana was thankful.

"Would I really what?"

"Like that as a wedding proposal?" She gave a shy nod. His face softened into that particular baby face that was always hard for Santana to stomach. "Awww," he cooed. God, this boy had been spending _way_ too much time around his kids. "That's _so_ sweet, Satan. Who knew you were secretly a romantic?"

"I'm not," she mumbled, contradicting what she'd told Kurt over the phone, earlier, "I just think it was kind of cute, and…"

"Oh my God!" he squealed. Santana was caught off guard when his arms suddenly wrapped her neck, effectively cutting off her air supply. "I knew it, Satan! I knew that deep down, past the cynicism, and the sarcasm, and the barbed wire there was a real life human in there! And a romantic one at that."

"Can't. Breathe."

"I'm so proud of you!"

Santana pushed him away. "God, stop before you get your fairy juice on me!"

"And there it went," Kurt said, dryly.

"I'm not _cute_. There's just…there's this bridge at the Common, and a duck pond, and all the flowers. Plus it's like where Quinn and I had our second date, and it's kind of special to me."

Santana was staring daggers at him, daring him to say something about it, so Kurt kept his coos and simpering to himself, despite the happy dance he was doing inside. But then he frowned, suddenly. "Oh, but I don't know enough people _here_ to do that for you guys. I mean if we were still in New York, yeah, all of the NYADA washouts would just _jump_ at the opportunity for a public performance, but here? I don't know anybody _here_."

He seemed deep in thought. "I guess Brittany and Mercedes could probably find people, and it doesn't have to be a lot, and I've already got the perfect dress practically already made for you."

Santana blinked. "You made me a dress?"

"Practically," Kurt emphasized. "Prac. Ta. Ka. Lee. It's something I'm working on for a premier. No…not for an A-lister, I wish, I'm not there yet, but it's perfect. It's green."

"Green is not my color."

"No…but it matches her eyes…keep up with me Santana! Sunflowers should be no problem, and those arches, I know an environmentally conscious, inexpensive way to make those." He frowned. "There's just simply not time. I wish you had contacted me sooner. What about doing something _less_."

Kurt snapped his fingers, drawing Santana's attention back to him. "I've got it. You say you like this park thing, how about if we do dinner and a play like in your favorite spot. We'll start with a limo. You'll pick Quinn up, of course. We can roll out the red carpet for her at the entrance, than you can escort her to a place, picked by moi, where I will have a five-star dinner prepared for you, and we, your Glee friends, will serenade the two of you with our dulcet sounds, and then you propose. Well, present her with your fabulous plead since you guys are already married." Kurt paused. "Oooh, I should totally be a wedding planner. Next life!"

* * *

Two hours before Rachel's flight was set to land, Quinn received a text message from Santana letting her know that she, Mercedes, and Kurt were caught up for the rest of the day, so Quinn took a break from her meticulous cleaning of her apartment to pick Rachel up from the airport. Rachel squealed upon sight of Quinn as if they weren't both almost 30, hadn't seen each other just a few months before at Noah's wedding, and as if she wasn't a Broadway star who was almost always surrounded by celebrities.

Quinn greeted her friend with her patented Rachel Berry smile. "Hi, Rachel," she said in return of Rachel's more enthusiastic greeting. "How have you been?"

"I'm so excited! This week is going to be so fantastic! It's been awhile since I've been to Boston, and it's going to be wonderful reconnecting with all the Glee kids. Gosh, I haven't seen some of them in years! Oh, and there's so many places that I've just been dying to see. You can show me around, of course?"

"Oh, of course," Quinn agreed. Because between the reception, the fitting for her gown, and her moms, she had plenty of free time on her hands. "When's your date arriving?" she questioned curiously.

"They're already here," Rachel said, cheerfully, before regaling Quinn with tales of her Broadway life. If Quinn could help it, she didn't talk about her work life. Once her suit jacket was off, she was done for the day, and Santana didn't talk about work much either. But whenever Rachel was around work was usually her go-to topic. Being outside of New York was always a bit of a come down for the starlet because in New York she got the star treatment, but everywhere else, she'd get recognized every now and then, but Broadway was still its own little isolated community. Quinn thought it was good for her. The idea of a world famous Rachel made her want to cringe.

When Rachel and Quinn met up with Kurt, Blaine, Mercedes, and Santana, it was hard to say who rushed into the other's arms quicker, Quinn or Santana. "Tomorrow," Quinn began in her no-nonsense voice. "You are getting up first thing, and helping me finish up with my apartment. Just _look_ at my hands."

Santana gave a glancing look at her wife's hands. "Okay, tomorrow, you do all of the running around that we've been doing today, and just so you know, the baker ran out of the ingredients for the cream that you wanted on the top tier of the cake, so she's going with the orange marmalade instead."

Quinn's eyebrows rose almost into her hair line. "What?" she hissed.

Santana grinned. "Just kidding, babe. Of course I'll help you tomorrow, but only because you've been running around with Berry, and that's a punishment worse than death."

"You really should be quieter when you whisper," Rachel snapped.

"Why? I meant for you to hear it," Santana said in reply.

And so went the next couple of hours.

Quinn temporarily lost custody of her wife, as Rachel laid claim to her. They went out for dinner at _Fridays_. Santana took the innermost seat in the booth, but Rachel scooted in right beside her, leaving Quinn to sit across from Santana. Her wife grimaced, but Quinn gave her a 'just go with it' look. 20 minutes later, Quinn was reconsidering after Rachel's hand touched Santana's arm for the 13th time that night. (Yes, she counted).

Rachel was a visual talker. When she demonstrated what one of the rookie actresses did, she waved her arms, and her voice rose, and other people in the sports bar actually turned around to look at her because she was _that_ loud.

"-And the next thing I know, my gown is completely trashed! Like literally in stitches!" And another arm touch.

"Oh, no," Kurt remarked. "What did you do?"

"Bradley Cooper was right there, and I turn to him, and I'm like, 'for all that's holy, can I please borrow your jacket'. And he let me!'"

Quinn wasn't aware that her eyes hadn't left Rachel's arm, until she got an alert that she had a text message. Although Quinn was a staunch believer in not answering text messages at dinner, she secretly opened her phone underneath the table.

**Just to be clear, is that jealously I'm seeing because you're jealous that Rachel's touching me and not you, or because Rachel's got her hand on your arm candy?**

Quinn looked across the table and met Santana's eyes. Santana winked at her. Quinn typed back. **Bitch's hand is about to get snatched if she touches you again.**

Santana snorted, almost choking on her water, which caused everyone to look at her. "Umm…I thought I swallowed a bug," Santana quickly improvised.

Kurt wanted to see the gay scene, so Santana steered them toward Jamaica Plain. Their destination was the Machine, since it was a gay bar whenever Dyke Nights didn't take over, but Rachel insisted on going to the Milky Way because she'd 'heard _so_ much about', and so they ended up at the one bar that Quinn had gone to, to try to pick up women.

Santana's hands fell down on Quinn's shoulders at the entrance. "You alright, babe?" she questioned, gently giving them a slight squeeze. "You look tense."

"Why are we allowing the _straight_ chick to pick our _gay_ destination," Quinn mumbled.

Santana smiled with her eyes. "Is that you finally admitting that you're gay?"

"I'm Santanasexual," she corrected, "and you didn't answer my question."

Santana shrugged. "It's taken me a couple of years to figure out, but Berry's like a wife; she's just so much easier to get along with when she gets her way."

"Excuse me…what? And what is up with Rachel's hands being all over you?"

"Rachel's just physical," Santana said with a shrug. "It goes back to when we were living in the loft; you know those late night cuddle-watch movies with our arm-pillows, family dinners, or when someone," she pointed at Rachel, "got scared, and we shared a bed."

"What and _what_? You used to cuddle with Rachel, and you really said something to me about making out with her?"

"My lips never touched Berry's."

"Cuddling's way more intimate!"

"Not if it's with Berry," Santana said dismissively. "Hey, there's an opening at the bar. Hey Kels!" Santana called.

Quinn was still awkwardly in the process of turning around, when she saw a flash of brown hair moving. Her head swung around completely just in time to see Rachel locking lips with the bartender.

"What is this?" Santana demanded. "How do you know, Kelsi?"

Quinn stared hard at her wife. "How do _you_ know Kelsi?"

"She's a bartender, and this is lonely hearts café for lesbians," Santana answered. "How do _you_ know her?"

"She's…you know."

You know, looked over and spotted Quinn and Santana, and a smile spread wide across her face.

"Luce! Santana!"

"Luce?" Santana questioned, realization dawning on her. "This was the-,"

"Hey, you guys already know each other?" Rachel questioned, happily. She wiped some of her lipstick from Kelsi's lips.

"What's going on here?" Blaine questioned, and the same time that Kurt said, "I'm so lost."

Rachel giggled. "Oh, where are my manners? Quinn, Santana, Blaine, Kurt, Mercedes, this is my wedding date, Kelsi Walburn."

"Okay, hold up," Santana snapped. "I know how I know Kelsi, and I know how Quinn knows Kelsi, how do you and _Berry_ know each other?"

Rachel frowned at Santana's behavior. "Kelsi's my ex, Santana. I know I told you about her before, didn't I? I'm sure I told you that I was dating a college…no, I know I did, Santana, because remember I asked you about…," she realized what she was about to say, and stopped the thought mid-sentence. It didn't keep her from saying, "So you can't be upset for me because you forgot."

Quinn felt like she was the last person to come to the party. "Wait, so this is the ex in New York who…"

"Has a habit of relating life to song lyrics," Kelsi finished for Quinn. She gave a firm nod. She played with Rachel's hand. "Yep."

"So that's how you knew my name was Quinn," Quinn said absently.

Kelsi nodded, trailing an affectionate finger down Rachel's arm. "Ray-bay talks about you guys all the time. It's been incredible being an outside witness to you guys." She smirked. "I feel like I know all of you so well. I can't wait to get to meet everyone at the reception."

Santana rubbed her temple. "So, are you two together?"

Both Kelsi and Rachel didn't blushed and smiled, not answering. Rachel gave a sickly sweet smile Kelsi's way. Quint felt faint. Who knew the world was so fucking small?

* * *

"I love this song, turn it up!"

Judy obliged, turning up the volume on the radio. "-and he never, showed his face again," Maribel started to sing the next lines, forgot about the musical interlude. She tried to cover up the mistake by humming along until the music started again. " _Oooh, I'm so glad, I finally found you. You're that one, in a million man. When you wrap, your loving arms around me, I can stand up and face the world again_."

Justine and Judy joined in with the chorus. " _You're love, is lifting me higher, than I've ever been lifted before."_

Justine threw in an embellishment or two, so Judy provided the less musical background vocals.

They all laughed when the song ended. "Oh, gosh, I don't remember how long it's been since I've heard that song!" Judy exclaimed, face flushed and smiling.

Justine nodded in agreement. "It's been a long time ago, hasn't it? I think I was 15 when that song first came out."

"When was that?"

"Late 70s I think?"

"I think I had just entered into my 20s."

"Your 20s?" Maribel questioned. "Oh lord, who convinced me to get in the car with a bunch of old farts," she teased. "So, what boy had you two singing that song?"

Both Justine and Judy hid smiles. "Oh, Lord," Justine exhaled. "When that song came out I had the _world's_ biggest crush on Michael, Sr."

"Even back then, huh?"

Justine nodded enthusiastically. "Oh, God yeah. We weren't a couple, not yet. He was two years older, a power forward on the football team, and he was just the softest, nicest guy in the whole world." Justine got that dreamy look on her face that is bred after years of being in love with the same person. "Sometimes I feel like I've been in love with Senior my whole life. From the first time I saw him, I knew no body but me was going to get their hands on _him_."

"If he looked anything like Junior when he was in high school, I would have been chasing after him, too," Judy complimented.

Maribel and Justine gave Judy matching incredulous looks. "Really, Judy?"

"What?" Judy questioned, confused. She looked back and forth between the two women. "Oh, you two know I would never go after someone else's husband. That's not what I meant! Honestly!"

Justine chuckled. "It's not that that's got us shocked," she said. "It's that you said you'd go after someone brown."

Judy balked at the assertion. "That was Russell, not me. In fact," she sat up proudly, "I gave one of the little black boys in the class a Valentine's kiss one year."

"Oh, how so very decent of you Judy," Justine commented with a look to Maribel. The two women snickered.

"What?"

"Just the fact that you called him 'that little black boy' is what makes us surprised that you claim that you would have dated a colored man," Justine explained. "Did you have a black friend once, too?"

"As a matter of fact, I did! So there! And you two can stop picking at me! It was different world then, then it was now, and you two know that. It's a new world, and I've adjusted."

"It's not that new," Justine mumbled.

Maribel reached across the console to give Judy's hand a squeeze. "Yes, you have, Judy-Prudy," she said affectionately. "You try, and when it still goes over your head, we laugh at you, but we still love you anyway!"

"Oh, boo to you Maribel Lopez! And you, too, Justine Jones!"

Justine guffawed, Maribel snickered and reached over to turn up the volume of the radio, but the song playing wasn't a song that interested any of the three women.

"What about you, Maribel? Was Pedro the love of your life?"

"He is now, but my high school novio was Manuel." Even now there was still that lingering burn that one seemed to always hold for their first love. "Oh, he had the sharpest haircut of anybody, and those eyes! He had these dark, almost black eyes that felt like he could see right through you. If he could, he sure had one hell of a view!"

Judy and Justine shook their heads at the implied naughtiness.

"What about you, Judy?" Justine asked with a kindness to her voice. She realized the potential difficulty of this line of questioning. "Was it always Russell for you?"

Judy snorted. "It was never Russell," she said. "Not even on the day we got married. Russell was a means to an end, so it's no wonder that he ended up in some other woman's bed. _Higher_ I would say was this neighborhood boy, Nathan Rodinsky. He had these dream boat eyes, and looked a little like Donny Osmond. All the girls loved him."

"Did you two get together?"

"I wasn't even allowed to get close," Judy said, a little regretfully. "He didn't go to church, and all the mother's agreed he was bad news, so I wasn't even supposed to talk to him. All the neighborhood girls said that he could talk the panties off of anyone. I guess they were right because he sure got mine."

"Judy Fabray!"

"Oh, please, I doubt either of you were actually virgins on your wedding day, either."

"I'm only surprised you admitted it," Justine said. She fell back to humming the words of the song that was no longer playing. "I like Rita's version of _Higher_ okay, but I'll forever like Jackie Wilson's better."

"Who is Jackie Wilson?"

"Jackie Wilson was Elvis and Michael Jackson before Elvis and Michael were Elvis and Michael. They both "incorporated" him into their acts."

"Oh, Michael. I used to be soo in love with Michael," Maribel interjected. "I was in the fan club, and I begged and begged my mami to let me see him when he came to Cincinnati."

"Did you get to go?"

"Of course not." Maribel laughed. "But oh, we wanted to so badly!"

"Michael was too young for me," Justine said. "Jackie was always my crush."

The song changed and Judy actually squealed at the sound of _Ain't no Mountain High_. "The three women seat danced as the car moved steadily towards Columbus. The music was turned up again.

"Now why don't they still make music like this anymore?" Justine protested. "All the music nowadays is just garbage. My grandson played for me Jayze's old album and there's like 2 minutes of his daughter just crying. That's it! And that's supposed to be music? Marvin Gaye and Tammy? The Temptations, the Stones, now that was real music!"

"They need to make music like this again."

"Didn't that young guy, Michael Bublé try to do that? Wasn't that his thing?"

"Yes, but I hated him!" Justin asserted.

"I hated his looks," Maribel agreed, "and the sound of his voice. And anyway, I don't want to keep hearing the 'oldies'. I want new oldies."

"We should start a singing group," Justine said with a sudden burst of inspiration. "If our girls can sing…well they had to get it from somewhere, right?"

"Quinnie definitely didn't get it from me," Judy replied.

Maribel and Justine laughed because neither of them were going to argue that. "It doesn't matter if we can sing or not. Singers don't sing anymore…they have Autotune for that. We just need a really happening name."

"Justine, the kids don't say 'happening' anymore."

Justine looked surprised. "What do they say, then? Is cool still _it_?"

"Fetch."

"Fetch," was repeated by the other two women. "Like what a dog does?"

"I don't pretend to understand kids," Maribel dismissed. "Half the time they're stealing from us and calling it new, the other half…wait, what do they do the other half of the time?"

"Break their mother's heart's by never getting married?" Justine questioned.

"Break their mother's hearts by getting married a few months before they're 30, and losing a 10-year, 10,000 bet?"

"Break their mother's hearts by…wait…no, I'm pretty happy with Santana right now," Maribel said, smiling. "Yes, I'm kind of upset that she got married at the drop of the hat, but she hasn't given me much grief about planning this reception, and if she wasn't so anxious to beat Noah to the altar our girls might _still_ be dancing around each other."

The three women shared laughter. "They do have a habit of standing in their own way, don't they?" Judy questioned.

"Oh, Lord, yes. Listening to Mercy come home and talk about them…it was like a soap opera! Oh and don't get me started on that Blaine and Kurt! I thought they were still going to be planning their wedding 10 years down the road!"

"They spent all that time waiting to get married, and then they flat out rushed into having kids. Honestly, I don't know where their minds were."

"Oh, hush. It's not like _we_ planned life when we were growing up. Life happened, and you reacted to it, but these new ones, they want everything to be in place. It amuses me when they realize things never are ever really 'in place'."

"If that's not the gospel!"

"If we had waited until things were perfect, Pedro and I would still be waiting to have kids," Maribel said with a chuckle. "Has Mercedes found anyone special yet?"

"She's been talking to that Airman friend of Noah's, Young. Maybe it will turn into something."

"Oh, I hope so," Judy said. "Mercedes is such a bright, talented woman, and she deserves to find someone who appreciates that."

"That's the problem," Justine said. "It's the curse of the black woman."

"It's the curse of the modern woman," Judy suggested. She thought it over. "Unless you're like Quinnie and Santana, and you date another other women. Then you don't have that problem: we appreciate each other!"

"Yeah, when we're not fighting!"

* * *

They parked in the long-term garage, and made it effortlessly through security. They had timed it so that they were boarding less than a half hour later, and after another half hour they were soaring up into the wild blue yonder. "I got it!" Judy yell-whispered. "The Golden Oldies!"

Maribel snickered over the magazine of _Modern Art_ she was looking through. On the other side of Judy, Justine was knitting. "Have you been thinking about that this whole time?"

"I don't like it. I'm not old," Justine protested.

"If you have an AARP card, you're old."

"What about the Goldies?" Maribel suggested. "We could even be on TV, like the Golden Girls! We could have a TV show/music platform! We can be the new Monkees!"

"I _loved_ that show!"

"Which one?"

"Both!"

"Me too."

"Ladies, I'm serious…we should start up a band."

"Could you imagine how the kids would react if we did? They'd have a fit."

"Maybe, but the grans would think we were awesome," Justine said, contemplatively.

Maribel puffed out her lips. "When are you two hens going to stop rubbing the grandchildren in my face?"

Judy poked a finger into Maribel's side. "Well, if you and Pedro hadn't stopped at one, you could be in on this conversation, too!"

"Yeah," Justine agreed. "Everyone knows you have the perfect child, and then you have a _backup_!"

"How long do you think that they're going to wake up before they have kids?" Maribel questioned practically.

Judy seriously contemplated the answer. "I don't know. I know that Quinnie's a little scared off by motherhood, you know since she has a daughter out there." She looked at Maribel. "Is Santana…do you think that she's going to want to be a mother?"

"Oh, definitely. She and little kids always seem to have this bond. In fact, she already has a little kid out there that thinks of her as his mother," Maribel said to the shock of Justine and Judy. She smiled as she realized the words, though she was oblivious to the looks she had just received. "Hey, so maybe I _do_ have a grandchild," she said, happily. "His name's Phillip; Santana's been helping out his mom for years. I told her she shouldn't let that kid do that, call her mama, because he'll just wind up confused, but does she listen? Of course not. What does a mother know? She'll learn some day."

"Oh, wow," Judy whispered. "Did you say that Santana has a little boy? I wonder if Quinn knows."

"If I know Santana, Quinn was probably blindsided by it, like 'hey, so there's this kid who I take care of', but I don't think it's something that Quinn _doesn't_ know about by now. Santana wouldn't lie. Not to Quinn. Not about something that big. She wouldn't want to hurt Quinn like that."

If that were true, Judy was disappointed that Quinn hadn't told _her_ about it, but something about Maribel's statement made Judy smile. "It's so cute how much they love each other."

"And didn't even realize it!"

"I bet they still don't realize it! God, every time Quinn would come home in a tiff, I wanted to tease her about having a lover's quarrel with Santana."

"When she was staying with us, it was always easy to tell when she and Santana got into it. She was always more…relaxed!"

"And Santana was so far in denial that she didn't even consider it. _Brittany,_ " Maribel scoffed. "As if." She quickly backtracked. "Now, don't get me wrong, I love Brittany as if she were one of my own hijas, but for my daughter? I just never saw them having anything really serious."

"I love how close the four of them have stayed over the years, though," Justine responded. "It's nice not having to worry so much about Mercedes being in a big city away from home because I know she's got people looking out for her."

Judy and Maribel both agreed.

The flight was a miraculous non-stop, and so it was only a few hours before they landed at Logan. The three of them grunted as the plane touched down. They shared that knowing look mothers had in common. "Courage, ladies," Justine joked. "Remember: once we're off this plane, we are no longer Justine, Maribel, and Judy, we are once again _mothers_."

"Dios, help us to survive."

"Amen."

* * *

Santana's eyes scoured the arrivals board, even though her phone had already confirmed every second of the way that the moms' flight was on time. Still. She wanted to pace, but Quinn was holding on to her hand, keeping her in place. Quinn was exuding all the grace of one who was perfectly in control, but Santana knew her wife; it was just a mask. Inwardly, Quinn was freaking out, too. Being around family always made her that way.

"Relax," Quinn said for the millionth time. She wished she could follow her own advice.

"I am relaxed," Santana snapped, tersely. A moment later she realized that she snapped at Quinn, and then apologized, placing a quick kiss on her lips. "Sorry."

Quinn's back straightened. "We are grown women," she chanted. She had said this at least three times already. "We are not little girls anymore."

Santana nodded, as she had every other time Quinn said those words. "Right. All grown up, and married, and have jobs. Important ones."

"Filing papers for the government," Quinn said dryly.

Santana rolled her eyes. "I have never filed a single pape-," she paused because she didn't know how true that statement was. "Okay," she acquiesced, "I do file a lot of paperwork."

Bryne on the other hand, didn't have to file anything. Ever. "Hey, so how disappointed were you when I told you I wasn't a spy," Santana said in a thoughtful voice.

Distracted, Quinn's mouth twitched. "What?"

"Nothing," Santana said, quickly. _She'd_ probably still have to file paperwork even if she became a full-time agent, and besides, she'd constantly be away from Quinn. And Phil. She was already going to miss his 5th birthday, which was a kind of big one to miss. That didn't sit well with her, but since she would hopefully be done with her agency job by then, she could probably find a few hours to fly in to have a quiet dinner with him or something.

Wow…was she really ready to do this?

"They'll only be here for a week," Quinn whispered.

Santana shook her head, absently bringing Quinn's hand up to her lips to kiss it. "I was thinking about Phil," she explained. "Kids change everything."

Quinn nodded. "Yeah, but it's not like he's coming. He's already here and has been for the past five years." Quinn stopped abruptly. "Is that Mercedes?"

Santana turned with Quinn surprised to see the Diva making their way over. "Mercedes!" Santana called, to get her attention. Which she did. And several other traveler's.

Mercedes seemed as surprised to see them, as they were to see her. "Hey, guys, what're you doing here?"

"The moms are flying in today," Quinn explained. "You?"

"Here to pick up a certain Airman?" Santana teased.

Mercedes gave a look that only the Diva could administer. "No…my mom decided to come early for the wedding so could spend some time together."

Just then the passengers on flight 6042 flooded the waiting area, and there were three simultaneous calls of "Mother-," Quinn

"Mam _i_!" Santana

"Mom!" Mercedes.

Mercedes looked back and forth between the three women. "Did you guys fly in together?"

Mrs. Jones looked back in the direction of the terminal. "Hmm…it doesn't look like there was another flight from Columbus landing just now…"

"But boy are our hands tired," Judy said.

"Oh, okay, you got jokes," Mercedes responded. "Ha ha."

Santana stayed in her mom's arms longer than either other girl. "Te extrañé mami!"

"Yo tambien, mija."

"You look…good Quinn," Judy said to her daughter.

"Thank you, mother…so do you."

Judy fluffed up her hair. "Thank you, Quinnie!"

Their party started to move towards the baggage claim. Santana quickly pulled Quinn into her arms, letting Mercedes and the moms go ahead of them. Santana made the sign of the cross, bringing her forehead to rest against Quinn's. "Dios me da fuerza."

"God…give…?"

"Me strength," Santana finished for her. Her eyes drifted to Quinn's. "I know that you and I are going to come pretty close to wanting to kill each other before this week is over, but I promise that when it's all said and done, we _will_ still be Mrs. and Mrs. Lopez."

"Fabray-Lopez," Quinn corrected.

Santana pulled back, taking Quinn's hand in her own. "I don't know _why_ you're fighting it, Quinn. It's only a matter of time before you drop the Fabray."

Quinn silenced Santana with her favorite method: kissing her. For a minute, they let the airport disappear around them, before Quinn was tugging Santana after their party. "One week," she said as a reminder.

"One week," Santana agreed.

"We can do this."

Quinn was doubting her words only a few hours later. She, Santana, Maribel and Judy were lounging around the living room, as Judy started to unpack and showed what she had brought back with her from Ohio.

"Mother!" Quinn hissed, her face burning a bright pink.

Judy brushed away Quinn's outrage, opening the book up to one of her favorite pages and showing Santana. "Oh, stop it Quinnie! I'm sure Santana's seen your tush before!"

"Mom!"

Santana winked at Quinn. "Don't worry, Mrs. Fabray, I have."

"Santana!"

But Judy hardly seemed outraged, so Santana ignored her wife, looking at the picture of little baby Quinn. Although looking at pictures of Trayce and Aubrey had had her wanting to scratch her eyes out after only a few minutes, Santana felt like she could look at little Quinn all day.

She pinched her wife's cheek. "Aww…baby, look at that _face. Look_ at that face!"

Quinn's payback came a half hour later when wine glasses were refilled, and Maribel showed the two that she and Judy had planned this attack because Santana's baby photos were brought out after they had exhausted themselves with Quinn's. And there were a lot of pictures. Scary ones with the red eye on them, sweet pictures of Santana sitting in her abuelo's lap as they ate dinner, pacifier in her mouth, pictures of Santana playing with her equally young cousins, pictures of Santana pushing away a little boy who tried to kiss her. "Ay, dios!" Maribel said comically. "I knew then."

The pictures seemed to improve in quality as Santana's looks did. They happened into a couple of pictures involving Mr. Lopez's side of the family, and Quinn unthinkingly stopped at one.

"Whoa, _that's_ Melinda Lopez?" Quinn questioned, staring in shock at the picture of a much younger woman. It was actually a picture of a picture, Santana sitting with her abuela as she was shown a picture of her younger grandmother. She and Santana looked almost identical at age 16. _Hmm…at least I know she'll age well_ , Quinn thought silently.

"Si," Maribel agreed. "They could almost be twins."

Santana excused herself under the guise of getting more wine. Quinn didn't immediately notice her exit, but as soon as she did she went tripping right behind her. "Are you okay?" she questioned, cautiously, inching toward the woman.

Santana frowned. "I just needed a moment, babe. It's tough…not having her at the wedding. My cousin Eddy, who hasn't been on this side of the country since 2009, is flying in just for this…"

Quinn hugged Santana to her. "You invited her, you did all that you can do, and if she doesn't show up…"

Santana blinked rapidly. "She used to love me, Quinn. You saw it, those photos. She used to want me."

"She still loves you," Quinn quickly insisted. She wanted to tell Santana that when Melinda thought that something had happened to her, Mrs. Lopez had shown concern which had to mean that she still cared. But Quinn kept silent about that because she knew that if Santana knew that Quinn had begged her abuela in person to come to the wedding, and then she still didn't show up, that that would hurt even worse.

"So do so many people in your life. But even if no one else in the world loved you, San, you don't have to worry because I l-,"

"Is everything okay in here?"

They both turned at the sound of Maribel's approach.

"Si, mami," Santana said quickly. Santana gave Quinn a look that she interpreted easily. She kissed Santana briefly on the forehead. "I'll go check on Judy," Quinn volunteered.

 _Thank you, baby_ , Santana mouthed. Quinn nodded.

Maribel apologized as soon as Quinn left the kitchen. "Lo siento, mija. Olvidé. I forgot."

"Esta bien, mami. It's okay. You can't erase the past."

"No, but it still can hurt. Mi cielo, sabes te quiero?"

"Si."

"Y tu padre?"

Santana nodded. "Si, mami. Lo se. I know."

Maribel hugged her daughter loosely, knowing full and well that Santana accepted comfort as often as she rejected it. "She was raised in a different time, with a different set of rules, and…sometimes, mija, we just get stuck in our ways and won't nothing change that."

"Lo se, mami."

"No matter what, though, you will always be my baby. You are always welcome right here." She patted her chest. "I want you to know that."

Santana rolled her eyes. "Lo _se_ , mami. I know! I know! Now can we get back to you embarrassing me in front of my wife, please?"

"I do seem to recall that I promised her that I would," Maribel said with a twinkle in her eye. Maribel and Santana rejoined Quinn and Judy in the living room. At their reappearance, Quinn opened her arms for Santana to fall into. As Santana adjusted herself in Quinn's embrace she thought she saw Judy and her mom exchanged 'Awww's'. Quinn noticed nothing, pulling Santana's baby book into her wife's lap so the two of them could continue looking through it together.

Behind their backs the mom's hi-fived.


	30. I won't say I'm In Love

“I have been on the phone with mother all day,” Quinn complained after greetings and kisses were out of the way. “I swear, I don’t even know how things aren’t taken care of by this point. Why did we say we were going to do this?”

Santana gave Quinn an indulgent smile, brushing a strand of hair back into place. “Because my wife indicated that she wanted a big ceremony, so we’re having a big ceremony,” she said in answer.

“Oh yeah,” Quinn responded. She contemplated her turkey and Swiss-cheese sandwich in front of her. “This is going to have to suffice for the rest of our lives,” Quinn decided. “Because after this, I’m done. This is it!”

Santana stood and did a classic Michael Jackson crotch-grab and spin, before striking his famous silhouette. “ _This_ is it?” she questioned, managing to plaster a confused look on her face.

Quinn couldn’t help but laugh. “No, you goof, I mean this is all the wedding we’re ever going to have. There will be no renewing of the vows fifteen or twenty years down the road. I’m done after this!”

Santana smiled, thinking to her and Quinn 20 years down the road, a few months from 50. If they didn’t have kids, they’d be that couple who went on vacations once a month and were out of town every weekend. If they did, she could just see Quinn looking absolutely perplexed when faced with a dirty diaper and a 7 year old who needed to make a diorama of the universe, or panicking as she tried to show their 16 year old how to drive. “I’d be cool with that,” Santana assured her. “I thought you and I could go out tonight. Romantic Sunday night dinner? Just you and me. How’s that sound?”

“Like pretty close to heaven,” Quinn admitted.

Santana gave a somewhat nervous smile. “Great. I’ll pick you up at 7:00. Oh.” Santana paused. “Don’t forget to get your sexy on, Q. None of that married slacking off garbage.”

*

Santana felt absolutely ridiculous. She should have known better than to trust Kurt. Sure her make-up had been done perfectly, and her hair fell flawless around her shoulders in perfect, full body curls, (all of which Kurt had nothing to do with) but the dress…the dress was light green, with gold undertones, and gossamer. Gossamer! That crap they made fairy wings out of! When Kurt said that he was designing a dress for the red carpet, Santana had thought stylish, sexy, glittery…well this one did have jewels on it. She had to give him that: there was bling. But it looked like a prom dress, but more flowering…it looked like a slightly more understated dress that one of the employees at Disney world might don. She was even wearing a thin circlet of gold (fake) on top of her head.

“This is the last time I ever trust you, Lady Hummel,” Santana growled.

Kurt looked highly affronted. “You look perfect!”

“I look like a freaking Disney Princess!” Santana screeched. She looked at herself in the mirror again. She started to turn, but caught herself, which caused her skirt to just sort of sway around her. Hmm…she gave her hips a little twitch.

“Exactly,” Kurt agreed. “You’re her _princess_ charming.”

Santana found herself playing with the basket of the dress, watching it sweep back and forth. “You could have at least given me a sword!” Santana protested. “If I have to go out in public in this get-up, I should have a manner of cutting down the idiots who work up the balls to say some shit about it.”

“I thought that that fabulously witty tongue of yours was perfect for that.” Santana smiled because her tongue was good for a lot of things…geez, she really needed to get laid. “Just keep telling yourself that you’re doing this for the woman that you love. The woman that you’d do anything for.”

“I wouldn’t say _anything_ ,” Santana mumbled. She had her limits.

Kurt continued to fuss with her dress and hair. Kurt’s contribution had been the dress. The hair and make-up had been done by Brittany’s stylist for the show. Brittany, however, had been nowhere to be found all day. 

“I don’t know who’s more excited about tonight,” Kurt declared. “You or me?”

“If you’re excited about this, you and Blaine _really_ need to be having more sex.”

“Ah, there’s that charming Santana that I know and love!” Just for good measure Kurt yanked a little too hard on a strand of Santana’s hair. “Oops, hand slipped.”

It said something about how far the two of them had come that Santana scowled at him, but left it at that.

*

Quinn almost squealed when she heard Santana’s familiar knock on her door. She took a deep breath before opening it, and watched the comical half smile that crept up her wife’s face, as her eyes took her in. Santana looked absolutely beautiful, as always, but Quinn wasn’t feeling too shabby herself. She was wearing a high-low hem dress, with Santana’s favorite shade of red on the top, bodice part, and a very particular shade of brown on the bottom. The waist was cinched off with a white belt with brown and red in it, tying the two parts together. Her hair was swept up into an up do, with just the smallest strand of hair curled around her face, showing off the perfect lines of her collarbone and neckline, just asking to be kissed. Two simple earrings with just a little dangle to them adorned her ears, and a matching single string gold necklace very lightly adorned her neck. Though it had taken nearly an hour to do, Quinn’s make up came out looking light, and barely there. It was just enough to bring out the color in her lips, the rose in her cheeks, the green in her eyes. When Quinn had last looked at herself, she was pleased with what she had seen, and judging from the look her wife was now giving her, Santana was equally as pleased.

“You look-,”

“Wow,” Santana whispered.

Quinn beamed. “Is this sexy enough for you?”

Santana tried to find words to say, failed, and merely nodded her head up and down several times in a row. When she remembered herself, Santana extended an arm, which Quinn eagerly took. Downstairs, instead of a limo waiting for them this time, there was a Ferrari F30 Spider. “Our last date before the wedding needed to be something really special,” Santana explained as she held the passenger door open for Quinn. “I wanted to get a horse drawn carriage, but Rachel just spent so much time in New York ranting about how it’s animal cruelty, so instead of a white horse-drawn buggy, I went with a white 490 horsepower drawn carriage.”

Honestly, Santana could have picked her up in an Amish donkey cart, and Quinn would have been okay with that. Well…after seeing Santana get behind the wheel of the vehicle she was second guessing that statement because her wife just looked so fucking hot driving. She didn’t even know Santana even _knew_ how to drive a stick shift, but she probably should have guessed that she could, because anyone ever involved in a high speed chase on TV all knew how to drive a manual, and Santana was Bond.

When they got to the Common, Quinn’s eyes flickered in acknowledgment at the red carpet that had been rolled out for them, and of the person waiting to open the door for her when they stopped in front. A young man Quinn had never met, slid in behind the passenger seat to the car after Santana got out. Quinn gave her wife a sideways glance. “What’re you cooking up?” she questioned.

Santana only smiled brightly. “Nothing,” she lied, leading her down the foot path to the spot near the bridge.

“Hey look,” Santana said. She motioned to a checkered blanket with a picnic basket on it. A single lily rested on top of the basket. “I wonder how this got here!”

Quinn laughed a little nervously at her wife’s antics as Santana helped her sit down. Her hand shook inside of Santana’s, and Quinn was thankful that Santana was far too nervous at the moment to notice her own nerves, and question them.

No sooner had their butts hit the blanket before Kurt, dressed up like the world’s gayest Disney prince, i.e. all of them, stepped into the view. “Good evening, ladies,” he drawled. “I am Mr. Hummel, your concierge for the evening. Thank you for choosing to dine with us on the Common. We have prepared for you a world class meal, which we know you’ll enjoy. Please, allow me.”

He kneeled down on the blanket. He gently handed the flower to Quinn before opening the basket to fix the both of them a plate. Marley quickly ducked in, sat down a bucket stand, and then rushed off. Kurt showed them the label on the bottle. “For this evening, we have an aged Merlot from my own _private_ collection,” he informed them with a wave of his wrist. He poured each of them a glass, before placing the bottle on the stand.

Santana smiled at Quinn, and rolled her eyes in a ‘can you believe this’ kind of way. Quinn smiled back.

After they had their food, and wine, in front of them Kurt left them alone. They ate leisurely, sometimes feeding the other. Their eyes never left the other’s the whole time they were eating. They didn’t look away from each other, until Kurt returned to clear their plate and he drew their eyes to them. “Tonight, for desert, we have our world famous apple tart with sparkling pear sorbet. Along with your dessert, we have prepared for your viewing pleasure a little musical number called _Quintanna: a tale of avoidance._ ”

Santana quirked an eyebrow. Kurt quickly rushed off giving her no chance to throw something at him.

As soon as he was gone, a gray platform kind of thing, no…it was a fountain, a fountain without water-was assembled in front of them. After it was constructed, from around the back side of the waterless fountain Mercedes appeared. She was wearing a yellow cotton sundress, a matching cardigan, and a blonde wig with a wide pink streak in it. She had a white lily in her hand, and pretended to pluck petals from the flower, but instead of saying, ‘she loves me, she loves me not’ she said, ‘I love her, I love her not’.

“Oh, San,” Mercedes sighed. She smiled into the flower, before she tossed it aside in a huff. “What’s the matter with me?” Mercedes whipped her hair around. “You think a girl would learn.” She picked the flower back up, and started to sing, “I _f there's a prize for rotten judgment, I guess I've already won that. San’s just not worth the aggravation, that's ancient history, been there, done that!”_

Brittany, Marley, and a miraculously changed Kurt appeared. They danced circles around ‘Quinn’. “ _Who'd' ya think you're kiddin', she's the Earth and heaven to you. Try to keep it hidden, honey, we can see right through you.”_ ‘Quinn’ hid her face. “ _Oh, oh!”_

 _“_ “G _irl, ya can't conceal it, we know how ya feel, and who you're think…ing of_.”

Mercedes, “ _No chance, no way, I won't say it, no, no_.”

Three hands went up to three foreheads, the other to their hips as they swayed. “ _You swoon, you sigh, why deny it, uh-oh.”_

Mercedes: “It’s too cliché, I won’t say I’m in love.”

The three’s hips swayed back and forth.

Rachel, now wearing a brunette wig obviously meant to resemble Santana’s hair, and a skin tight, short red dress, appeared. Quinn and Santana looked at each other and Santana snorted, just as surprised by this as Quinn was.

Overly dramatic, as always, Rachel was looking forlorn with a hand pressed to her chest. _“I thought my heart had learned its lesson, it feels so good when you start out. My head is screaming ‘get a grip, girl’, unless you're dying to cry your heart out oh!”_

Brittany, Marley, Kurt danced between the two girls. _“You keep on denying, who you are and how you're feeling, baby, we're not buying, hon, we saw ya hit the ceiling, face it like a grown-up, when ya gonna own up that ya-_

Brittany: _“Got,”_

Kurt: _“Got”_

Marley: _“Got, it bad?”_

Mercedes: _“Whoa oh. No chance, no way, I won't say it, no, no.”  
_ Brittany, Kurt, Marley: “G _ive up, give in, check the grin you're in love!”_

Santana looked over at Quinn who was blushing profusely, and took her hand. Quinn looked back, and they smiled at each other.

Rachel: _“This scene won't play, I won't say I'm in love.”_  
Brittany cartwheeled into a back handspring tuck. Kurt, Marley: “Y _ou're doin' flips, read our lips, you're in love!”_

Mercedes & Rachel: _“You're way off base, I won't say it”-_  
Brittany, Kurt, Marley look at each other, _“She won’t say it no.”_

Mercedes & Rachel: “ _Get off my case, I won't say it.”_

Brittany, Kurt, Marley: “ _Girl, don't be proud, it's O.K. you're in love”_

Mercedes and Rachel both sank onto the bench. Mercedes and Rachel: _oh, at least out loud, I won't say I'm in love._

Brittany, Kurt, and Marley shimmied back behind the fountain: _Sha la la la la la ahhh.”_

As quickly as the crowd had formed, they dispersed, leaving just Quinn and Santana alone. Quinn was looking expectantly at Santana. Santana rubbed her hands on her thighs, fighting nerves. She breathed out. _This is it_ , she thought. _Go time._ “You might be wondering what all this about,” Santana began, starting her well-rehearsed speech. She didn’t’ get a dance to finish it, however. A loud boom halted Santana’s words.

“What is that?” Quinn questioned.

Santana shrugged. There was nobody screaming, or running for their life, so she figured it was just an idiot doing what it did best. “It’s the Common,” she offered as explanation.

Quinn stood up. “No, it sounds different. I want to see what it is!”

“We’re kind of in the middle of something,” Santana protested. “Quinn, there was something that I really, really wanted to tell you.”

Quinn started to head off in the direction of the sound, which was sounding more and more like drums. “Babe!” Santana protested. She had spent all day gearing up for this. She wasn’t sure that she’d even be able to say what she had to say it she didn’t say it now. But Quinn was moving, so sighing she got to her feet, and chased after Quinn.

Santana caught up with her after about 30 yards, and gently grabbed her by the crook of her arm. “Quinn, let’s finish our dessert. Hummel went through a lot of trouble, and whatever that is, forget it.”

Quinn strolled along on as if she didn’t hear Santana, and Santana was helpless to do anything other than follow after her wife. Quinn stopped just shy of the walking trail, where a group of guys were sat in the middle of the grass with heavy stand drums.

“Oh, what’s this,” Quinn questioned, seemingly innocent.

The lead drummer stopped drumming as he fixed his eyes on Santana. “Oh hey dere beau-tiful! You want to come’n beat on me drum?”

Santana scowled, giving him a disdainful look. “No thanks.”

Quinn pulled Santana to her. “Yeah, she’s kind of taken.”

The drummer leered. “She doesn’t look very taken, miss. I tink you would be very happy wit’ me.”

“Do I have to say it again,” Quinn hissed. “She’s mine.”

The drummer turned to Santana, but continued to talk to Quinn. “Does she know that?” he questioned? “Does she know how you feel ‘bout her?”

Quinn cut Santana off before she could say anything. “Of course she does.”

“How?” the man questioned. “How does she _know_ you love her?” He beat out a distinctive rhythm on his drum, and Santana stiffened because…no, no it couldn’t… This time the words were sung. _“How does she know she’s yours?_ ”

Quinn frowned, contemplating. She avoided Santana’s eye as she sang back, _“How does she know that I love her?”_

The drummer and Quinn got in each other’s faces. 

Drummer: _“How does she know that you love her?”_

Quinn: “How do I show her I love her?”

Drummer & Quinn: “ _How does she know that you really, really, truly love her?”_

“Quinn…?” Santana whimpered.

Quinn took an embarrassed and blushing Santana by the arm, and led her down the walking path. _“It's not enough to take the one you love for granted. You must remind her or she'll be inclined to say: how do I know she loves me? How do I know she's mine?”_

_“Well, does she leave little notes to tell you, you are on her mind?”_ One of the prop actors handed Quinn a piece of paper that she scribbled on _, ‘_ You’re beautiful’. _“Send you yellow flowers, when the sky is gray? Hey.”_ Blaine, Kurt, Marley, and Jake each handed Santana a sunflower _“She'll find a new way to show you, a little bit every day. That's how you know, that's how you know, she’s your love.”_

_Blaine wrapped a red ribbon around the flowers._

Drummer:“You got to show her you need her, don't treat her like a mind reader. Each day do something to lead her, to believe you love her.”

Another theatre prop, this one a chapel, with arch’s made from fun noodles, decorated with flowers, was being held up by a group of people, as two couples in wedding dress danced with each other. Quinn led Santana past them as they crossed the bridge. _“Everybody wants to live happily ever after. Everybody wants to know their true love is true. How do you know I love you? How do you know I’m yours?”_ Blaine snuck in to do a little two-step with Santana.

Blaine: _“Well, does she take you out dancing, just so he can hold you close? Dedicate a song with words meant just for you? Ooh,”_

Blaine spins her around. _“She'll find her own way to tell you, with the little things she'll do, that's how you know, that's how you know-,”_

Quinn, _“You’re my love. You’re my love.”_

Group: “ _That's how you know that she loves you, that's how you know it's true.”_

They made it back to where their picnic dinner was set up.

Kurt: _“Because she'll wear your favorite color, just so she can match your eyes. Rent a private picnic, by the fire's glow, ooh. Her heart will be yours forever, something every day will show. That's how you know.”_

Crowd: _“That's how you know.”_

Quinn: _“That's how you know”_  
Crowd: “That's how you know.”  
Quinn: “That's how you know.”  
The Crowd releases a flurry of balloons into the night sky. Crowd: _“That's how you know she's your love”._

In the background: “ _That's how she knows that you love her. That's how you show her you love her”_  
Crowd: _“(That's how you know)”_  
Drummer: _“You've got to show her you need her, don't treat her like a mind reader.”_

Crowd: _“(That's how you know)”_  
Drummer: _“That's how she knows that you love her.”_  
Quinn: _“That's how you know that I love you.”_  
Glee kids: _“(She's your love)!”_

Everyone: _“It's not enough to take the one you love for granted!”_  
After that performance the sudden quiet was a little disarming. The crowd dispersed, quickly, not waiting to see what happened, as was part of Kurt’s plan (because this _was_ Quinn and Santana and there was no guarantee that there wouldn’t be a fight before they got to the loving part), leaving only the actual park goers behind, some of who were looking to see what the ‘answer’ would be.

“You did this?” Santana questioned.

Quinn nodded, smiling, but looking anxious. “I know that you have something to say, but I just really, really need to say something to you first.”

Quinn swallowed hard, trying her best not to fidget. She took Santana’s hand in her own, meeting her eyes. “I wanted to let you know that I noticed. I noticed that you were always the first to congratulate me when there was something good happening in my life, and I noticed that you were always the first to tell me that I was full of it. You were the first to bring us back together, and the first to realize that if you want something you should ask for it. You are my best friend, and my lover, the woman I want as the future mother of my children, and the person that I want to grow old beside.”

Quinn fought valiantly to keep her voice from shaking, but she lost the battle. “You demand better from me. You demand the best of me, and don’t let me settle. You’ve always extended a helping hand,” her head tilted a little to the side, “or a nice kick in the ass, whenever I need it, and you are courageous. You are the only person that I could ever imagine saying these words to, and the only one I ever _want_ to say these words to.”

Quinn was slightly startled to see that her wife was crying. Santana looked incredibly naked, and exposed in the moment, and oh so very breakable. She looked vulnerable in a way that Quinn was not used to seeing, maybe had never seen before. Quinn looked at her and felt this tightening in her stomach, a sinking feeling in her gut. Slowly she realized that the reason for it was because she was falling. She had just jumped off of a 50 foot cliff, and she was tumbling full on into whatever this was between her and Santana, and it was scary; it was terrifying. It was surprisingly liberating. At this point, all that could happen would be that she either crashed and burned, or Santana would be there to catch her when she fell.

Even though the answer was already yes, even though there was already a ring on her finger, and they already shared a bed together, and they were beginning to learn how to share a life together, even though the reception was just around the corner, Quinn felt as nervous as she had that weekend when she had come to New York with the intention to make her and Santana official. 

With the pad of her thumb, Quinn very gently brushed the tears from her wife’s eyes, paying no attention to her own. She fell to one knee, very carefully slipping her hand into her clutch to remove the engagement ring. “So, Santana Fabray-Lopez. Will you marry me?”

Tears fell more freely as Santana nodded. Her eyes moved to Santana’s lips, as they slowly moved towards each other, Quinn’s arms going around Santana, pulling her into an embrace.

“Was that a yes?” Quinn questioned, after some time had passed, “because I have this ring here?”

Santana drew back, and she must not have actually seen the ring earlier because she questioned, “You really got me a ring?”

Quinn nodded. “Every woman deserves to have an engagement ring.”

Santana flexed her fingers in front of her in anticipation of putting on the one that Quinn had gotten her. “You better have gotten me some mad bling, Fabray,” she warned.

“I don’t know about crazy bling,” Quinn replied, showing her the ring. Santana frowned, and it was so unexpected that Quinn was frowning too. “What’s wrong, San?” she questioned, worried. Maybe she _should_ have gotten a new ring. One that was more expensive; flashier.

Santana’s eyes stayed trained on the piece of jewelry. “Isn’t that the ring Martin gave you?”

Quinn looked at the ring in confusion. “What? No. Why would I do that?”

“I recognize the ring, Quinn,” Santana said. “It was in your bag that weekend. I saw it when we were putting your stuff in the cab.”

Understanding suddenly came to Quinn. “No, sweetie. The ring Martin gave me was a white gold vintage ring. I wouldn’t give you the ring that he proposed to me with! Have a little faith in me!”

“But I saw _this_ ring,” Santana insisted, stubbornly.

“Because I was going to propose to you. When Martin popped the question, he told me that he didn’t want anyone mistaking what we were to each other, and I realized that I didn’t want anyone mistaking what you and I were to each other, even if _we_ weren’t entirely sure what we were to each other. It made me realize that if you want something, you should go for it, so I was going to go for it.” Quinn gave a half-hearted laugh. “I was going to propose, but it just didn’t come out. And then we got in a fight, and things just changed between us, but I kept the ring. I don’t know why. Maybe because I knew I was going to try again someday, or maybe because I was still paying it off, and I would have only gotten a 1/3rd of the price back if I pawned it. I don’t know. I could have gotten you another ring, I guess, but this one has a history, but if you want-,”

Santana cut her off with a kiss. “Babe, it’s perfect.” She looked down on her engagement ring in amazement, playing with it with her thumb. “You were going to propose?”

Quinn nodded. “I put it in the peanut butter jar, and you were supposed to see it when you went to make you a sandwich, only you didn’t. And…,” they both knew what happened after ‘and’.

Santana looked into the eyes of this beautiful woman that was kneeling in front of her. She helped her to her feet. “We wasted a lot of time, didn’t we?”

“We did,” Quinn agreed. “But we’re here now. Isn’t that all that matters?”

A fresh wave of tears fell from Santana’s face as she nodded enthusiastically. Quinn watched the tears fall, not knowing why she was startled by the idea that her wife was a hopeless romantic. It lasted all of ten seconds, though, before Santana’s voice hardened. “I can’t believe that you hijacked my proposal!”

“I can’t believe that you didn’t realize that you were _planning_ your own proposal.”

“It’s been really stressful lately,” Santana said with a pout. “And I had this all worked out.”

Quinn kissed her. “I know, babe. But you don’t get to be awesome all the time without me getting to shower you with a little bit of it, too. You already proposed to me,”

“That wasn’t a real proposal.”

“It _was_ a real proposal, and it was perfect. It was… _us._ Because if you would have done the dinner thing, and popped the question, I wouldn’t have said yes, I know this, you know this, that’s why you didn’t do it. If I thought, then, that it was serious, I wouldn’t have gone with it, because we have a habit of messing each other up. Luckily enough, though, we have family, and friends, and apparently the whole universe, who are all more than willing to give us a helping hand.” Quinn squeezed Santana’s. “I know that we joke around about it, and we don’t say it to each other, and tomorrow, we can go back to finding other ways to say it, but just this once I want you to know today, tomorrow, and forever, I love you, Santana Lopez.”

“Fabray,” Santana couldn’t help herself from adding.

Quinn rolled her eyes. “Santana Fabray-Lopez. Happy?”

Santana nodded. “Very much so. Te amo, tambien, Quinn.”

The two of them were just getting into a really hot kiss when Kurt said, “So everything’s all right, ‘yes’ has been said, last minute fighting got out of the way? Are we the happy couple, now?”

They broke apart with a laugh. “Yes, Kurt,” they both hissed in perfect synchronization.

“Oh, thank God!” Kurt exclaimed comically, clapping his hands together. “It’s a yes!” he shouted. There was a loud chorus of cheers, and then the celebrating began.


	31. The Little Reception that Could

Quinn woke up to the feeling of something hard slamming into her body, and the paralyzing fear of the air being forced from her lungs. She started coughing, flailing wildly until she felt her fist connect with something soft, and the weight pressing down on her shifted.

“Ow!”

Quinn recognized the voice. “Santana!” she hissed.

Santana rolled off of her. “Damn, what the hell, Quinn, you got me right in the cheek!”

Quinn opened her eyes, blinking against the sudden morning. She pulled herself to a sitting position. What the hell were you doing?”

“Trying to wake you up!” Santana said, grumpily rubbing her cheek.

“By sitting on my chest?”

“You weren’t waking up, and we’re going to be late if you don’t put some juice in your ass. It’s time to pick up Puck! Get up!”

Quinn rubbed a hand over her face. _God, I married a freaking 12 year old._ “Why do I even need to be around?”

“Eye candy,” Santana said immediately.

“Honestly, I’m surprised you didn’t just marry _him_ ; that way you two can play together all the time.” Quinn was grumpy in the mornings. It was a undiagnosed genetic condition.

“Well, I would have if he didn’t have man smell. That and that nasty, unattractive _thing_ in between his legs. And if he could kiss worth a damn.” Santana seemed to be struggling to remember something. “Oh, and if he were you.”

“Whatever. I know you love him more. Whenever you and Puck get around each other, everyone else disappears.” 

Santana tugged on Quinn’s collar pulling her closer. “I could never forget about you, babe.” Before that could be taken as a romantic uttering Santana added, “You put out for me.”

“Not recently,” Quinn said under her breath.

Santana caught it. “Aww…babe.” She did a boob grab. “Are you feeling neglected?”

Quinn pushed her away. “Don’t tease.”

“Honestly, Q, I didn’t think that you would have such a hard time with this. You spent most of high school highly pressed.”

“Which is every reason why I don’t want to go without it now. You don’t get married to someone as sexy as Santana Lopez. Fabray,” she added before Santana had the chance to correct her, “And not have sex with her.”

Santana postured, and an extremely cocky look took over her face. “You think I’m sexy baby?” Santana started humming a few bars of “Sexy, and I know it”, doing what should have been an unflattering wiggle, but Quinn couldn’t help but think about Santana’s skilled hip movements when she was wearing Gianna.

Quinn reluctantly pushed the thought away. “You’re infuriating, you know that?”

“Well _I_ find _you_ deliciously irresistible,” Santana said. She pulled Quinn into her lap, burying her face in the crook of her neck. “I mean this ass alone,” Santana said, meditatively squeezing her ass. “I think we both know what _ass_ ets I love the most.”

Santana’s caress was almost absentminded, her hands moving in almost worshipful appreciation. Quinn wanted to pull away because each time Santana’s fingers dug in a little deeper in her gentle massage, it pulled her forward a little more into Santana’s pelvis, which felt so good. She wanted to end it before she got too worked up, but it just felt good. She was missing her wife’s intimate touch.

Santana didn’t appear to be aware of what she was doing. “I swear,” she whispered softly. “I think your ass was perfectly designed for my hands. Look at how well your cheeks fit.” She gave an added squeeze.

“San-,”

Santana pressed light kisses on Quinn’s neck, dragging her lips along her pulse points. “Forget food and water, I’ll take your ass and neck any day.” Her kneading got a little rougher, more intent. Quinn could feel herself falling into the touch. She wanted this. She wanted Santana so badly right now. On her knees, her back, straddled; she didn’t care. She just wanted her wife, preferably completely naked, but if not she wouldn’t be too fussed about it either. She just wanted to feel her wife.

Quinn felt Santana’s tongue touch her neck and she almost came undone from just that, as if she were a 16-year-old boy just having his first handful of boob. But fuck that. All thoughts of being good left her mind as she pulled Santana’s chin up, and leaned in to cement her lips against Santana’s. Santana didn’t hesitate to kiss her back, either, their lips moving in tandem against the other’s. Santana’s tongue begged entrance, but Quinn didn’t want to give her the chance to stop this. She took over the kiss, her tongue fighting and winning dominance. She moved the both of them backwards towards the bed.

Since they were ‘abstaining’ (and Santana had a semi-rational fear of their mother waking in on them even though they were currently staying at Quinn’s apartment) her pajamas had been more conservative than Quinn was used to seeing Santana wear. Instead of sleep shorts and a tank (or more common panties and nothing at all), Santana had been sleeping in a semi modest gown, and Quinn in longer shorts and a sleep shirt. Quinn had started to have a growing disdain for that gown as it covered all of her favorite parts, but today she saw the benefits of it.

Santana’s gown rode up nicely as Quinn joined their bodies together, giving Quinn a nice view of Santana’s abs. They looked so good, and just begging to be shown some love, so that’s what Quinn decided to do. She kissed her way down to Santana’s stomach, her fingers gently caressing Santana’s torso as she moved. Lovingly, she kissed the taught skin, marveling at her wife’s movements when Santana sucked in her breath, and breathed out Quinn’s name.

Quinn took a moment to study the way Santana’s boy shorts underwear rested against her hips, before she pushed fabric out of the way. Quinn placed a kiss right above the belly button, her tongue softly caressing the skin just to remind herself of the taste of her wife. She placed a harder kiss, sucking eagerly on the flesh. She could smell Santana’s arousal, could feel her heating up beneath her ministrations.

She treated Santana’s abs the way she wanted to treat her lady parts. She flatted her tongue and ran it along the surface of that sultry, tender skin, pressing an intermittent kiss here and there. Even though Quinn worried with each passing second that Santana would pull away, she still took her time simply because she wanted to. Because a quickie would do nothing for her when they had so much exploring of each other to do.

But she appeared to run out of time because when Santana started to actively squirm beneath her, she did stop her. She pulled Quinn upwards, but only so Santana could place a needy kiss on Quinn’s lips, pulling her down on top of her. Without breaking this contact between them Quinn very gently urged Santana’s legs open with her knee, and settled herself in between them.

“Quinn,” Santana pleaded, but whether it was to stop her or to ask for more Quinn wasn’t sure. Honestly she didn’t care. At the moment all she really cared about was getting to feel the wetness that Santana’s body had prepared for her, and she didn’t really care how.

“Oh, God Quinn,” Santana mumbled. Quinn took the opportunity to bring her lips to that spot at the back of Santana’s ear, a spot she knew turned her wife into mush. At the same time she started to move, letting her knee grace her core. “Quinn.”

Quinn couldn’t ignore the insistence in Santana’s voice this time. “Do you want me to stop?” Quinn hated herself for asking; the words had really just slipped out without her meaning to let them go. She feared her response, but Santana simply pulled Quinn closer to her. “I never want you to stop.”

It was all Quinn needed to hear before her hand was on the hem of Santana’s gown to pull it over her head.

The phone rang.

Quinn felt Santana’s body stiffen at the sound. “Leave it,” Quinn practically begged.

The lyrics to Will Smith’s “Parent’s just don’t understand,” filled their bedroom. “That’s mami,” Santana said regretfully.

“Call her back.”

“She might be calling because they’re outside or something.”

Quinn petulantly rolled off of Santana, and Santana went digging for her cell phone. She hit speaker.

“Que pasa, mami?”

“You sound out of breath, mija,” Maribel stated. It was accusing and amused all at the same time.

“Well, _mom_ , you did kind of catch me in the middle of something.”

“I know what I caught you in the middle of,” her mother replied. “That’s why I called.” Well that answered Santana’s lifelong question on whether or not parents actually knew when their kids were having sex. “Noah’s plane is landing in 20 minutes and you guys should already be at the airport, so stop baby dancing and go pick up my adopted son.”

Quinn sighed when Santana hung up the phone. “See, told you we were going to be late,” Santana said. She kissed Quinn on the forehead, bouncing to the edge of the bed to pull Quinn to her feet. “Shoes on. It’s Puck time!”

_Oh, joy!_ Quinn felt something like Bryan Griffin did when he was standing at the bar: whose _leg do I have to hump to get an orgasm around here?_ Quinn took the world’s fastest shower, and pulled her hair into a pony, but paused while she was dressing. She was still hugely aroused and she wondered why she didn’t just get herself off in the shower.

Quinn jumped a step when Santana hit her on her ass. “Shoes, babe. That is, unless you hid them. Rápido!” Quinn obeyed because…well because Santana rolling her ‘R’s’ was one of the hottest things on the planet. 

* * *

“ _Picking up my Puck. Getting him right now. His plane was in the air, but now it’s coming down. I…”_ Santana seemed to run out of words. “Hmm…”

“It _is_ possible for us to drive to see Puck _without_ singing,” Quinn suggested as Santana tried to think up song lyrics.

“Yea, but what fun is that? I need a word that rhymes with stripper.”

Santana didn’t take her eyes from the road but she knew Quinn was giving her a look. “Why?” “Just a song babe.”

“Puck knows better than to hire a stripper, right?” Quinn’s voice had taken that _tone_. The one that used to send the weaklings of McKinley scampering in every direction.

“I’m a grown woman,” Santana said, foolishly. “If I want a stripper, I’ll get a stripper.” She was aware that her wife was still staring at her. “Luckily for me, I don’t happen to want a stripper.”

“You better not,” Quinn said in a low voice.

“Would you punish me if I did?” Quinn merely glowered in response.

By the time they got to the airport and were parked, Puck’s plane had already touched down, but just so. He was coming out of the gate at the same time they were reaching it. “How’s that for timing?” Santana questioned, proud of her self. 

The two of them, Santana and Puck, rushed into each other’s arms, then quickly drew back to play fight. Quinn watched, noting how so much different Noah looked since high school. Puck caught Quinn’s eye and pulled away from Santana to wrap Quinn up in a big hug. “Looking good, baby mama, only…” he took a step back, and gave Quinn an appraising look. He shot Santana an angry glare. “What’d you do, Flopez?” he demanded.

Santana looked flabbergasted. “What’re you talking about, Puck?”

“Quinn looks pressed, which means you must have done something to piss her off.” Quinn blushed bright pink, but still smirked.

“I didn’t do anything. Even though it’s none of your damn business, Quinn and I have decided to be like nuns for a while.”

Puck merely nodded, surprisingly not making a joke about it. “Me and Shelly didn’t get any good loving on leading up to the wedding, either,” he informed them. That wasn’t why they weren’t having sex, but Santana didn’t feel the need to correct him. Then he might really laugh and Santana had the whole weekend to get through with him.

They had no trouble spotting Puck’s stuff because he dragged his big military duffel everywhere he went.

“Why don’t you buy a suitcase,” Quinn questioned.

Puck shrugged, tugging on it once and slinging it over his shoulder. “Just got used to having the thing,” he said in answer.

They drove immediately from Logan to Framingham. Puck wanted to see Phil, and this was the only day before the wedding that they could take the whole day off to do so.

The look on Phillip’s face when he saw Puck was priceless. It Santana was Christmas, Puck was a snow day when you had a test coming up though you forgot to study for. “Daddy Puck!” he shrieked, jumping all over the man. Santana would have almost been jealous by the reaction, except for the fact that Phil saw Puck an average of four times a year, tops, so of course he was excited to see him. And then there was that whole male bonding thing. Most of Phil’s life revolved around Hazel, with Santana’s occasional visits. Unless there was a male day care worker, on average Phil didn’t spend much time with other males, and especially not older ones. 

Puck changed out of the clothes that he had traveled in and into a suit and tie. Phil watched him in fascination as Puck tied his tie to airport standards. Puck sat Phil on the counter and patiently showed Phil how to tie his own. Quinn silently watched him for a moment contemplating about what she gave up with him when she gave up Beth. But maybe Puck was just good at it now because age and time had given him patience that he wouldn’t have had as a teen father. Either way, they had given their daughter up, and a relationship with Puck would never have worked out. Quinn was with the one true love of her life; her love for Puck revolved solely around what the two of them had gone through together, not actual love for each other.

Santana wrapped an arm around Quinn’s waist. She kissed her on the cheek before barely whispering in her ear, “It’s not too late; you can still have him.” Quinn looked at Santana and saw that there was nothing but jest in her look.

“Yes, because we both know how well _that_ worked.”

“When’re you going to admit that you’re just a big gay queer lady, Fablo?”

“Fablo? Are we there now?”

“I can be Flopez, you can be Fablo.”

“Quinn and Santana _are_ still viable options.”

“Whatevs, babe. If we ever have a boy, you can teach him how to shave, and I’ll teach him how to pee standing up.”

Quinn snorted, and eyes turned to look at them. “How’d Phil learn?” she questioned curiously.

“Well, after several painful attempts on both my and Hazel’s part, Puck visited, and the next thing we know, he’s peeing standing up. Men _can_ be useful for something, sometimes.”

Hazel appeared wearing a nice, but unpretentious dress, her hair done nicely, and she was wearing make-up. She looked fresh faced, and actually chipper, happy to be going on an outing that allowed her to dress up, even if it was casual. She, Puck, and Phil looked like they were going to church, and Santana almost stopped herself from making the suggestion that Hazel start going to church just to have that something to do.

“You look nice, Hazel,” Santana complimented.

Hazel beamed. She squeezed Phil’s cheek who was still sitting on the counter. “Well of course I have to look good for my little man!” she said.

The five of them piled into Quinn’s Cube, (a vehicle that had hardly seen any road time since Santana and Quinn had gotten married, since Santana drove about 90% of the time), Santana and Quinn in the front, Hazel, Phillip, and Puck in the back. Most of the conversation belonged to Phil and Puck, as Phil went on and on about starting kindergarten, and how he’d already met his teacher, and how he was sure he was going to like him a lot.

Quinn quietly listened to him talk, thinking about Beth. Quinn and Frannie both had been quiet children; and while Santana didn’t hold back when she talked, she also didn’t volunteer a lot of conversation most of the time, either. So, no matter whose egg they were looking at, they would hopefully end up with a quiet child.

She snorted. _Yeah, right_. Santana turned from her driving. “What’re you thinking about over there?”

“Whether or not _our_ kid would be as vocal as Mr. P.J. back there,” Quinn said low enough that their voices didn’t carry. “I was just thinking that since both of us aren’t _chatty_ , we’d have a quiet kid, and then I laughed because there’s no way our child would be anything other than difficult.”

Santana laughed, too, reaching for Quinn’s hand and kissing it softly. “True that.”

They parked the car and unloaded the two day-bags that they packed. Phil wanted to immediately rush into the awaiting ocean, but they had something to take care of first. The reason for the dressing up. It wasn’t really a ceremony. Just a small little thing so Phil didn’t feel left out of the whole thing since he couldn’t come to the wedding. It didn’t matter how many notices about no outside photography, people never listened. Besides Jenna could be there, or some other associate of the Healy family, and although Phil looked like he could be a love child between Santana and Puck, and Santana had spent the last months of her ‘pregnancy’ with Hazel, she still didn’t want to risk it. So, it was just the five of them. Hazel was officiating, Puck walked Santana down the aisle, and Phil was the ring bearer.

Afterwards they changed into beach wear, and Phil didn’t know what to do with himself, having four big people to play with. He finally settled on Quinn, much to Quinn’s surprise. Quinn didn’t really _do_ kids. Babysitting Mr. Schue’s nephews had scared her off to children, especially boys, and even though she could manage with Frannie’s kids from time to time, she still was reserved. The past few weekends when Phil was with them, he was really with Santana, and Quinn refereed. But now Phil was demanding to be played with, and he could be just as persistent as Santana, so she found herself caving.

After lunch, Quinn mostly hung back with a book while Santana, Puck, and Phil ran after each other, and Hazel was close enough to the three of them to be deemed participating. After a half hour she seemed to tire herself out, though, and she came over and sat down beside Quinn. A few minutes, maybe five or ten passed in silence before Hazel said, “Thank you.”

Quinn placed a finger on the last word she’d read. Hazel explained before Quinn had a chance to ask, “for including him in this.” Quinn smiled, because she didn’t know what to say. She hadn’t been able to get a full read on Hazel yet. “You seem to be taking them well,” Hazel noted. “Are you honestly okay with him being a part of your lives?”

Quinn, who was watching Phil and Santana gang up on Puck, turned slightly to look at Hazel. “He is a part of my wife’s life, so I have to be okay with it.”

“No, you don’t. If you told Santana that you didn’t want her around him anymore, she would stop coming around, stop calling, stop everything.”

“Maybe, but why would I do that?”

“Selfishness,” Hazel said simply. “We’re human. It’s in our nature to be selfish. It’s called self-preservation.”

“Is that why you gave her an ultimatum?”

Hazel looked guilty. She uncomfortably played with her clothes. “No.” Her eyes didn’t leave the trio playing in front of her. “Have you ever felt like an outsider in your own family?”

Quinn gave the question some serious consideration. “I used to,” she said. “But then I made my own family.”

Hazel nodded “I never wanted a family. A partner, sure, but not kids. _She_ wanted kids.”

Quinn gave Hazel a little more of her attention. “ _She_? Santana?”

Hazel shook her head. “Pe. Santana never told you, did she?”

There was a laundry list of things Santana never told her. “Tell me what?”

“How I ended up here?” Quinn was the one to shake her head this time. “My wife tried to kill me.” Quinn kept the surprise from her face at the open confession. She knew Jenna was a piece of work, but-, “She doesn’t know about him.” Phil adopted a he-man pose. He growled. “I wasn’t going to have him, but Santana convinced me that I should. She even told me she’d raise him for me if I didn’t want to. I thought her reasoning was because of that whole Catholic thing, but to her, her focus on me keeping him had nothing to do with being Catholic. She knew-” Hazel didn’t seem to want to elaborate on that so Quinn didn’t ask her to, but in her head she filled in what Hazel hadn’t said. “So if you were ever wondering what hold he has on her, that’s it. He wouldn’t be alive if it wasn’t for her...and I don’t know, maybe he senses that. Sometimes I think he loves her more than me.”

“A child loves its mother first. Always.”

Beth, Quinn realized, might have some affection towards her, may someday even love her, but Shelby was Beth’s mom. Quinn was just the one that had given birth to her. “To him, Santana _is_ his mother. Just as much as I am.”

“Then why share? If you feel like you’re an outsider, why not tell her to stop coming around?”

Hazel barked out a laugh. “Because that means she’d stop coming around.” She held up a hand before Quinn could say whatever she was going to respond to that. “I don’t mean that in any romantic way; I don’t have those kinds of feelings for your wife. She’s like a sister to me, only not. She…believed me. Living with her was a nightmare. My family abandoned me, I lost all of my friends. Pe made herself my whole world, and I didn’t have anything to say about it. I lived this life day in and day out, indescribably lonely. No one saw her for who she was, but Santana did. She believed me. She believed me even though it was my word against her friend’s. That means a lot to me.”

Santana looked over at them, realized they were talking, but didn’t rush over to stop them. She purposely turned back to Puck. “She knows who I am. My own son thinks that I’m Hazel Phillips Lopez, and everyone I meet gets introduced to Hazel, but she and Puck know I’m not her.”

“Is that why you let Santana and Phil get so close to each other?”

“No. That,” Hazel tried to find the right words. “That honestly just happened. Phil practically imprinted on Santana from birth. He _knows_ her. In his heart. He recognized her from the first day he was born. She used to talk to him when I was pregnant, and when she spoke around him right after he was born, he turned to her voice in recognition. He was comfortable being in her arms. He asks for her whenever he’s scared or upset. When he’s throwing a fit. He acts like that bear she gave him two years ago is pure gold, and he makes her hug it every time she’s over so that he’ll have her smell when she’s not there.

“Santana loves things, people, without realizing that she does it, and what she loves, she protects. A lot of the time, unless it gets pointed out to her, she doesn’t even realize that she’s doing it. I love my son. I love him because he’s here, and I’m mom…but if I was back in that moment before I knew him, I wouldn’t have had him. I am eternally grateful for all that Santana has done for me, and continues to do for me, but sometimes I just wish that Jenna had gone through on her promise. I gave Santana an ultimatum so she could realize what Phil means to her, and to reaffirm to me, that that’s indeed what she feels. I gave her an ultimatum because sometimes I feel that way about the whole situation, and I need to know that someone who loves him is around to take care of him if I can’t.”

* * *

Puck drove them back from Providence. Quinn sat up front with him. Santana, Hazel, and Phil sat in the back. Phil took up as much real estate as possible, and while he still had his seat belt on, based on his prone position, it would do little for him if they actually got in a car accident. From the mirrors, Quinn could see Santana softly stroking the little boy’s head absentmindedly. Quinn was unaware when Puck reached over and grabbed her hand, but she looked down at some point, surprised to see her hand in his. Noah really was a good guy. He may have started out rough back in high school, but the more he aged, the more he grew up and matured. Quinn was liking the man that he was becoming.

Puck decided to spend the night at Hazel’s to have a little more time with Phillip, and Santana and Quinn drove back to Boston in relative silence. It wasn’t until they were back home, that Quinn voiced something that had been on her mind since her and Hazel’s talk.

“Can I ask you something?”

“You can ask me anything, babe,” Santana returned without hesitation, “What’s up?”

“Are you sure that this is where you want to be?”

Santana looked around the bedroom. “As opposed to…?”

“I mean with me. Here with me. Am I intruding on your life?”

Santana’s eyes narrowed as she tried to figure out what Quinn meant. “Where is this coming from all of a sudden? Did Hazel say something to you?”

“Hazel and I talked, and you’re right, she’s…”  
“Sad.”

“And lonely. Very lonely.”

Santana sighed. “I know, and I don’t know how to fix that. I honestly don’t. I hate that she’s so close to where any one of Jenna’s friends or coworkers could run into her, but the thought of her being somewhere else…. I don’t think she would still, but if she hadn’t been pregnant during those months after Jenna put her in the hospital, I know she would have killed herself.”

Quinn suspected that same thing; Hazel had all but alluded to it earlier.

“Do you think that she would ever do something to hurt Phil?”

Santana shook her head almost immediately. “No. If I did…” she didn’t finish the statement. Her eyes narrowed in thought. Quinn was waiting for something, and once Santana realized what it was, she gave it to her wife. “No, you’re not intruding, mi corazón, you _are_ my life. I told you, I don’t always think things out as well as I should, and there was a time in my life where, yes, I was seriously considering having a life with Hazel, but it would have been something close to what you had with Martin. Just with even less sex. It would have been settling in the worst way possible. You’re what’s real to me. You have always been what’s real to me, and in the hierarchy of life, you are the most important person currently in my life.”

Santana started to undress. She climbed into bed, and waited for Quinn to do the same. Santana opened her arms, and Quinn obediently climbed into them, facing her wife. “Do you know what I thought about the entire time I was out today? About family, and about our eventual family, and our little Lucy Q and little Santana. About us growing up and growing old together. And no matter if I’m the fun loving aunt, or if I’m the other mother, that image of us, Quinn, that’s what I want. Us above all else, okay?”

Quinn nodded. Santana gave her a quick peck on the lips.

“Now, can we cut with all this sappy because I’m going to have to go to the dentist’s office by the time Sunday rolls around because of all this sweet that’s been in my mouth.”

* * *

The problem with waiting until you were nearly 30 to get married is that by that time most of your friends are either already married, or have gotten their first divorce. The problem with your friends already being married? The stupid things that you would normally do when you’re at a Bachelor’s party, are forbidden by their significant others. The problem with being in a show choir in high school? Studies have shown that people involved in show choirs are 10 times more likely to be whipped by their domestic partner. What all that meant: no stripper for Santana. Not that whoever they would get could even compare to what she had waiting for her at home…still. It was an unwritten rule. Bachelor Party = sexy stripper.

Puck fell down beside Santana, handing her a mixed drink. She gave him a suspicious look. “It’s not laced is it?”

“Drink it and find out, Flopez,” he leered. “You know I was going to get you a stripper, _just_ because, but you’re so fucking whipped you probably would have ran across the room like you did at my bachelor party.”

“I didn’t run! Besides, you know the difference between you and me back then? I was already married, and you weren’t. And I’m not whipped. I’m in love; there’s a diff.”

Puck drew back at Santana’s words for a second. “That’s legit, San.”

“Yea,” Santana nodded, a smiling playing across her lips. She punched Noah suddenly. “Don’t think I forgot that you still owe me my money, Puck.”

“Ow…stop hitting me so fucking hard!” Puck hissed.

“What, can’t take a hit?”

He rubbed his arm. “No, I can, but it’s not fair because you know I can’t hit you back!”

“You can,”

“Yeah, and get my ass kicked for ‘picking on a girl’, hey no thanks. And I didn’t forget. I’m going to run home to see Mama and Sarah while I’m on leave, and I’ll get your money. What was the wager?”

“Don’t pretend like you forgot. A dollar and a dime, and you know which dollar…”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Santana and Puck watched Mike and Tina give a somewhat awkward exchange. Mike had gotten married the year before to a dancer he’d known for a couple of years, and Tina was still single. So was Artie, but there was no way that train was about to get a revival. “Phil looked good,” Puck said suddenly. “Doesn’t he look good?”

Santana smiled. “He does,” she agreed.

“Hazel,” Santana sighed, nodding in acknowledgment of Puck’s thoughts. “What should we do about her?”

“What can we do?” Santana questioned, rhetorically.

“Well, I know this is going to sound shitty or whatever, but he’s _our_ kid, right? Why don’t we just _take_ him?”

Santana punched him. “That’s _seriously_ shitty, Puck; I can’t be believe you’d even suggest that. And anyway, Hazel and I are already working out a joint custody thing. So she’ll get some alone time, though alone time is the last thing I think she needs.”

Puck hummed. He seemed to have a thought. “You ever wonder what a Puck-Santana special _would_ look like?”

Santana looked at her best male friend since practically infancy. “Not even once.”

Puck pushed Santana off of the couch. “You’re such a punk!”

The party had all the markings of turning into a Glee club reunion until Santana’s cousins, Carlos and Benny, 31 and 27, showed up equipped with 300 water balloons, 5 Mega Super Soaker’s (where they got them from was anyone’s guess), and two 1/5ths of Tequila as well as Kahlua Ice Cream Sundae’s. If marriage, kids, the military, careers, and/or actual age was supposed to age people, it completely missed the mark with this group; it actually just made their aim better. And if having an all-out water war was something that only teenagers did, well that’s what the alcohol was for.

By the time they hit the last water balloon everyone was soaked thoroughly with the lone exception being Brittany, who seemed to have a knack for hitting without getting hit. Tina, on the other hand, seemed to be soaked through, which was unfortunate for her because she had mistakenly wore something that was sheer when wet. Gallantly, Benny took off his shirt, and let her wear it, and somehow that ended up with several of the guy’s shirt’s coming off because…Santana was still waiting for the logical answer for that. And then Brittany took her shirt off because she was drinking and that’s what she did when she was drunk.

The whole thing was so reminiscent of high school that Santana was almost expecting them to fall into a game of Truth or Dare, which didn’t happen, but Sugar did decide to poorly serenade Santana and do half of a strip tease…which was just as painful as listening to her sing. Mike, Brittany, and Carlos ended up dancing. Tina joined in because apparently she couldn’t help herself around Santana’s cousins. They threw back shots, and talked about life. They talked about their wives. (Tina was the only one in the room besides Sugar who _could_ have had a husband, but was currently single, and Sugar’s husband, a Greek playboy was rarely talked about).

“Shit,” Puck whispered underneath his breath. “Give it 10 more years, the next time we’re all together, we’re going to be talking about carpooling schedules.” Puck punched her.

“Ow…what’s that for?”

“For getting everyone all domesticated.”

“What the hell, Puck, you’re the one who started this by getting engaged and Brittany was the first to get married anyway, not me!”

Brittany smiled over at them, hearing her name. “What?”

“Puck’s saying that you’re responsible for making everyone domesticated because you got married.”

She gave a Brittany smile. “That’s been my plan all along; and see you guys thought that Rachel was the glue of the group.”

“Hey, I thought I was,” Artie said. Artie wasn’t married either, but he’d been dating this wannabe model for the past 3 years. It was highly suspected that she was with him because she thought that Artie was going to catch a big break someday, but Santana just couldn’t see him as a big name director. Just to screw with him Santana said, “You going to be putting a ring on a finger sometime soon, Lieutenant Dan?”

She laughed at the sight of him turning pale.

“I’m talking to a girl,” she heard Young say. Young appeared to be having a private conversation. “Maybe it will turn into something.” Young sounded eager, and hopeful, and there was no reason for his conversation to even enter into the space where she and Puck were, until they both seemed to realize who he was talking to. “It’s all pretty new, but I could really see something happening with us. She’s smart, and gorgeous, and talented. So talented. She’s got this voice…What she finds interesting in me, I don’t know.”

“You seem like a decent guy,” Sam was saying kindly. “What’s her name?”

Santana shoved Puck, who hastily got to his feet. “Hey!” Puck said loudly, making sure everyone was looking at him. He held up his glass. “To my best bro who’s kind of getting married this weekend, there’s only one thing I can say.” If they were waiting for some great words of wisdom, they were looking at the wrong guy. “The key to a happy marriage is two things: liquor and poker. Lick her in the front, poke her in the rear.”

Several faces scrunched up in disgust, or amusement, and Santana groaned. “Really, Puck? Young, I thought you were supposed to be taming him.”

Young gave a blush, and a smile.

“There’s no taming the Puck-ster,” Puck declared.

“Unless your name is Shelly!”

It was a big enough distraction to pull Sam and Young away from their conversation. Santana convinced Tina to dance with Sam, and after taking a minute to catch on, she did.

* * *

Across town, at Santana’s apartment ‘the girls’ were having a much different party. Wine bottles lined the counter, white and silver Mylar balloons were tied to chairs, there were little bags of goodies sitting out on the counter, and Rachel Berry had come prepared with a sack full of board games, three of which were of the singing variety. They spent the evening doing nails, watching bridal movies, and drinking. The highlight of the evening came when they played the ‘Who brought which Thong’ game, and after the women sat around in their home brought lingerie playing _Never Have I Ever._

When Mercedes was one of the only ones who didn’t drink to ‘Never have I ever kissed a girl’, Quinn watched Rachel drink with a smug look on her face, and she was prompted to question, “How did you and Kelsi even happen?”

Rachel looked surprisingly at Kelsi. “As I’m sure you’re aware, those that are attracted to the arts seem to harbor a natural proclivity to sexual ambiguity, and-,”

Quinn interrupted her before she could get worked up. “Rachel, think about what you’re going to say, and shorten it by half.”

“How’s this then: she was hot!” she leaned over and gave Kelsi what was supposed to be a chaste kiss, but nearly ended with Rachel in Kelsi’s lap. Quinn looked away because…just no. “She was in my Dramatic Arts II class, and she invited me out for drinks. The rest, as they say, is history.”

Mercedes seemed to catch up with the conversation. “Wait, so you two are together?” Mercedes questioned, pointing a finger back and forth. Kelsi and Rachel giggled, but didn’t answer. “And you used to date?”

“Indeed we did,” Rachel answered promptly. 

Mercedes looked at Blaine and Kurt. “Did you know about this?”

“We were roommates,” Kurt answered. “Unfortunately, yes.”

“Hey!” Rachel shrieked. “We were quiet. Most of the time.”

Rachel was next to take her turn, and thankfully the conversation shifted.

Midway through the evening Rachel and Mercedes got into an argument about who was the better singer, and Quinn watched with an amused smile on her face. Quinn thought that it was perfect that Rachel and Mercedes still argued and bickered from time to time, even after all these years had passed. They no longer had solos to compete for, but Mercedes, who seemed more than happy with her life every day except for the days that Rachel Berry was involved in it, felt the need to still compete. Quinn understood that that need was partly Rachel’s fault. Rachel couldn’t help but brag excessively about it whenever she got around, and Rachel was currently enjoying a lucrative career on Broadway.

But Quinn could understand where Rachel was coming from, too. Supposedly Quinn had had it all in high school, but she still felt the need to prove herself. Rachel was the geeky loser who was always following behind more popular people. She had endured slushie after slushie, year after year, had been called every horrible name in the book (many by Quinn or Santana), had had her dreams stepped on, so of course she had a lot to prove. Quinn got it. But they weren’t in high school anymore, and while Rachel was living out her dream it wasn’t like the rest of them were doing too shabby. Even Puck had received several promotions since high school.

“What are you thinking about,” Mercedes questioned, squabble with Rachel apparently finished.

Quinn gave a bland smile, and shook her head. “Just thinking about us, and how things never change. I like that.”

* * *

It seemed that the two of them had a penchant for getting married outdoors. Their wedding/reception took place at the pavilion on Market Street. The gazebo was just big enough for the official, Puck and Brittany, Mercedes and Frannie and, of course, the brides. Santana was led through the aisle on Pedro Lopez’s arm, followed shortly behind by Quinn with Russell. As the two groups marched down the aisle, it was impossible to look at anything but them. They were both stunning.

Quinn had changed her mind a few weeks ago about wearing a cocktail dress, going with an actual bridal gown instead. It wasn’t over the top extravagant, though. It was tastefully understated, with no train, and no vail, but had plenty of embellishments to it. Quinn’s hair had been fashioned into Grace Kelly’s signature style, and Santana had even surprised her with a tiara that now rested, half hidden, among her golden locks. Santana was wearing something that was more in-between a cocktail and bridal dress. Her gown was more beige than white, and a very simple sleeveless gown, with a V-neck that looked like it swooped down far more than it actually did. It hugged her frame nicely, and complimented her extraordinary shape in just about every way. It made her look sexy and sophisticated at the same time. To everyone’s surprise, she didn’t go with serious bling for the jewelry; the three piece set she wore, was very simplistic.

Quinn got her answer to the question that she had wondered about several months ago about whether or not Santana would be as excited as Puck was, if it was her coming down the aisle, because Santana’s eyes didn’t leave Quinn, and her smile didn’t stray from her face as she watched a semi-stunned Russell walk Quinn up the gazebo steps. Predictably, she did nudge Noah, and Quinn could read what the look she shot him said as clearly as if she had actually said the words, “ _Can you believe I landed her_?”

Quinn gave Santana a look that let Santana know that Quinn felt like the lucky one. As they stood to face each other, Santana thought about the last time she had been here, waiting to say ‘I do’ to Quinn. They certainly had traveled a long way since then.

Santana felt like this was all old hat as they got through the introduction, and “Sonnet 17” by Pablo Neruda was read instead of a prayer, “I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz  
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off. I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,  
in secret, between shadow and the soul. I love you as the plant that never blooms, but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers; thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance, risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

“I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way, because I don't know any other way of loving, but this, in which there is no I, nor you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep  
it is your eyes that close.”

Both women felt a kind of nervous energy when they moved on to their vows, each written out separately. Quinn, for once didn’t look entirely composed. Her masks were completely abandoned, and she stood in front of Santana bare, naked. “I’ll keep this short since you said that we’re hitting our sappiness quota for the year.” Quinn brought her eyes to rest on her favorite pair of chocolate brown eyes. “I don’t know how we do it, Santana, but somehow we work. Somehow, all of our misshapen pieces fit together in a way that just _works._ I fell in love with you before I even knew what it meant to love someone, and I’ll never stop loving you because after spending so much time doing it, I don’t know how not to love you. Believe me, I tried.” Santana chuckled. “So, I’m glad you finally came and claimed my heart because it was getting lonely, and it was always yours to have anyway.”

It took Santana a moment to find her voice after Quinn finished. She cleared her throat. “I’m not good with words; I’m better with action. I was worried when you said you wanted to do our own vows because I thought that this would be hard, coming up with the words to say, to express to you how much you mean to me, but I realized that there’s nothing hard about this. Loving you is easy. It’s so easy. It’s like closing my eyes and breathing, easy. I don’t even have to think about it. I know I’m lucky to have you, and there will never be anyone else that I’ll ever want to say this to. I am yours for however long you want me, and I’m hoping it’s forever because even that much time won’t be enough time to love you as completely as I want to.”

Santana fixed her with a look after she finished speaking, and despite the layers of fabric that was separating the two of them, Quinn felt herself blushing profusely and simply wanting the woman that was in front of her.

Santana, Quinn, and their wedding party stayed behind to take pictures as the guests headed to the pavilion. Santana’s eyes, which had searched the crowd for one particular silhouette before they said their vows, gave the area another glancing look when they made their way over to the pavilion. She hadn’t really allowed herself to hope that her abuela would come, but when her eyes fell on the empty seat that had been left for her, Santana felt her shoulders hunch a little. Quinn, noticed and gave her wife’s hand a tiny squeeze before the two of them sat down at the head table. They had barely graced their seats when the music was cued and they were once again standing to take their first dance.

Santana had wanted their first dance to be to Trace Adkins“Hot Mama”and Quinn wanted Ron Pope’s “You’re the Reason I Come Home” but the song that ended up playing was neither of those two songs. Santana couldn’t for the life of her figure out if they had agreed to this song, or if Quinn had just chosen it, and Quinn couldn’t either, but when they heard the first notes of Pedro Lopez’s voice singing over Puck’s guitar, it didn’t matter who had picked it; it was just perfect. _“Forever can never be long enough for me, to feel like I’ve had long enough with you. Forget the world now, we won't let them see, but there's one thing left to do.”_

It was perfect because they may not have been those corny, sappy people the last couple of weeks had made them out to be, but today they were, and that was okay. “ _Now that the weight has lifted, love has surely shifted my way. Marry me._ ”

Santana had never been as happy as she was right now, and for the moment she didn’t care who saw her as weak; she was in love. If the people around them didn’t know what this moment felt like, then she just flat out felt bad for them. She and Quinn’s eyes stayed locked on each other, as they mouthed the words to each other. _“Together can never be close enough for me, to feel like I am close enough to you. You wear white, and I'll wear out the words "I love you", and you're beautiful. Now that the wait is over, and love has finally shown her my way.”_  
Santana dipped Quinn and it startled her into giggles. She laughed as Santana brought her back up into her arms. _“Marry me. Today and every day. Marry me. If I ever get the nerve to say "Hello" in this café. Say you will. Mm-hmm. Say you will. Marry me.”_

Santana held on to Quinn for a few seconds after the song was over, before leading her off of the dance floor to reclaim their seats.

Father Hidalgo, the priest from Saint Rose, her childhood church, got to his feet. At the sight of him, this time Santana successfully fought the urge not to look around for missing people. His blessing was brief, and traditional, and Santana was so very surprised that he had made the trip up here considering that he was usually a hardliner in his sermons, but still grateful that a man that she had come to respect a long time ago, was here for to show support for them in this moment.

When Father Hidalgo sat down, Mercedes got to her feet with flair, and Santana caught Rachel give her a glancing look. Santana rolled her eyes because she could tell that Berry was peeved that she was not the one making a speech. “Look at Rach,” Santana whispered softly in her wife’s ear. Quinn did so, and they shared a quick snicker before giving Mercedes their full on attention.

“Hello, everyone, I’m Mercedes Jones, the best friend.” Santana gave another eye roll. “So for all of us that have sat back and watched this soap opera drama develop, congratulations! Y’all we did it!” Both Quinn and Santana blushed at the sound of the excited cheers and applause. “I know it seemed like this day was never, ever, ever going to come around, but finally we’re here, and if you were a part of the bet, the official date is June 27th, 2022.”

Mercedes shot a wink at the bride’s table. “On the real, though, I have been friends, in some capacity or the other, with these two since high school, and one thing that has always been obvious to any of us watching, even if it was usually not clear to them, and boy was it not clear to them,” there was appreciative laughter, “it’s that these two love each other so fiercely that it makes the rest of us wonder what love is. Congratulations!”

Mercedes met Quinn’s eyes. “I am so very happy for you, Quinn; my heart is bursting open. You deserve this,” her eyes flickered off to her right for a quick second, before returning to Quinn’s, “and I hope you hold on to this over the years. I hope you remember this moment, and it brings you through every bad moment, and every fight, ‘cause I know you’re going to fight a lot, and you remember this love that you’re feeling right now. Santana?”

Santana cocked her head to the side, waiting. “We’re cool, but if you hurt my girl, I’mma be forced to go-,”

“All Lima Heights Adjacent on you,” was said by more than four different people, and there was shared laughter among the brides and the Gleeks. Puck’s speech was next. Santana had very few expectations from her best bro, so as long as he didn’t make a lewd comment about how hot the two of them together were, he couldn’t disappoint. Who was she kidding? As long as he didn’t make a rude gesture, he wouldn’t disappoint.

But Puck was always surprising.

“I’m not too good with public speaking, so I had to write this down so I wouldn’t forget it all.” Puck unfolded a sheet of paper. “I’ve known both of you for more than a decade; San, I’ve known you for two. Santana: you know my secrets, and like me in spite of everything I am, and Quinn, you and I have shared something that has left us with a bond that can never be severed. Without getting too sappy, we’ve seen each other through some of the highest, and lowest points in our lives. Winning Nationals, graduation, Finn’s death, marriages, the birth of Beth.” He seemed to disappear for a second. He cleared his throat. “To say it as simply as possible: I love you guys. And I love that you found love with each other. To eternal love.”

Quinn gave Puck her ‘Noah smile’ and Santana punched his arm as he sat down. “Softie,” she hissed appreciatively, and Noah smiled.

Santana felt more than saw the glare that Quinn sent Brittany’s way when Brittany stood up to make the last toast. Santana placed her hand on top of Quinn’s and gave it a light squeeze. Similarly, Tamara was offering the same comfort to Brittany, as she began her toast.

“I’ve known both Santana and Quinn for a very long time. In high school we were known as the Unholy Trinity. Santana and Quinn are the kind of friends that make you feel safe. I’m not the most courageous person, I’m not the prettiest, I’m not the smartest, but with them, I didn’t have to be. I always knew that I was protected, I always felt pretty, and I knew I was loved. That’s what you hope for in friendship, and that’s what you hope for in a marriage. I know that a lot of the Glee kids placed bets on whether or not the two of them would ever make it here, but I never did because I had an unfair advantage. An inside view,” Brittany wiped a few tears from her eyes. “It wouldn’t have been fair, because I know a sure thing when I see it, and it would have been stupid,” she gave an ironic laugh, “to bet against them. Which is why I never did.

“To Quinn and Santana, I wish you two only the best!”

At the applause, Brittany disappeared. Santana gave a look at Quinn who nodded softly. She gave Quinn a quick kiss before she rushed off in the direction that Brittany had disappeared in. She caught up to Brittany, catching her by the hand, and spinning her around.

Brittany gave her a tearstained smile. “Hi.”

“Aw, come here,” Santana said, gently pulling her into her arms. “That was beautiful, Britt-Britt. Thank you.”

Brittany sniffled. “I’m sorry.”

“I know, Britt; it’s okay. I know when it comes down to it, you’ll always come through for me. You never disappoint.” Santana wiped her tears away, and extended her pinkie. Brittany quickly wrapped her own around it. “You’ll always be my bff,” Santana assured her. 

Dinner was being served as they made their way back to the table. Santana saw Quinn sitting a little stiffly in her chair, and she frowned slightly. “How’s your back?” Santana questioned with concern. She placed a hand on her lower back, trying to massage it a little through the dress.

Quinn nodded. “Not too bad,” she answered. “Brittany okay?”

They both looked her way. She had rejoined her table and was telling a joke or a story that had Tamara displaying a rare fit of laughter. Rachel looked slightly disturbed and Kelsi looked highly amused. “She’s great,” Santana responded. “She only ever had the best intentions.”

“I know, but it still doesn’t make me want to rush off and be all buddy-buddy.”

“And you don’t have to be,” Santana assured her. “You are allowed to feel whatever you want to feel.” Santana nodded at Rachel and Kelsi. “How long do you think _that’s_ going to last?”

“Not very. Rachel _needs_ a leading man like most people need water.”

“True that.”

Santana played with Quinn’s hand, intertwining their fingers. “I love you, Quinn.”

Quinn gave a tentative smile back. “Te amo, tambien.”

They were content to sit back for a little while and watch their wedding guests. Almost as soon as the music was turned back up, Tamara and Brittany were on the dance floor, followed closely by Mercedes and Young. Mr. and Mrs. Lopez weren’t far behind, either, her father giving her a wink as he twirled and dipped Maribel.

“Go head, daddy!” Santana called out to him. “Show mama that Lopez charm!”

Quinn’s thumb traced circles on the back of Santana’s hand. “You think that will be us someday?”

Santana gave a semi-sad smile that didn’t match her words. “Oh hells, yes,” she said. “You know we’re going to embarrass the hell out of our kids every chance we get!” Santana nudged Quinn. “I almost forgot, I got you a gift.”

“What is it?”

“Look under the table,” Santana directed. For a fleeting second Quinn wondered if Santana had staged something dirty underneath the table, but when she looked what she saw was a pair of ballet flats. “Cushioned insoles,” Santana whispered. “So we can dance all night.”

Santana surveyed the crowd while Quinn slipped into her shoes, her eyes narrowing when she saw Rachel and Mercedes holding a whispered conversation. “Quinn!” Santana snapped, a sense of urgency in her voice.

“What happened?” Quinn questioned, already switching to panic mode at the look on her wife’s face. Santana nodded in the direction of her friends. “Why are Berry and ‘Cedes over there talking to each other?”

Quinn sighed more at herself than at anything else because when was she going to learn to not take Santana’s antics seriously? “I don’t know, S, maybe because they’re friends and want to catch up.”

Santana shook her head. “Unt unh. No. I know Berry, they’re plotting something. I need you to go over there and figure it out.”

Quinn gave the woman a thin smile. “San, you’re being ridiculous. They’re just talking.”

Tina strode with a purpose over to the two divas. Santana jutted a finger out. “See! You still think they’re _just_ talking? They are planning something! You did tell Rachel that under no circumstances is she allowed to sing, right?”

Quinn rolled her eyes in exaggeration. “Yes, honey. I know you think that Rach is an overly dramatic attention seeker, but she does know how to control herself at events.”

Santana huffed because she might be overly dramatic, but Quinn could be so naïve sometimes. No, they were plotting something, she could taste it in the air. “Fine, I’ll go.”

Quinn clutched at the air, Santana already have moved out of her grasp. “San, leave it,” Quinn called after her. “There’s no crazy allowed today, Santana!” she hissed.

Quinn dithered on whether to go after her, or pretend that nothing was going on. She chose the latter, marveling at how well everything had come together.

Santana wasn’t able to make it over to find out what Rachel, Mercedes and now Tina were talking about because the Father-Daughter dance was announced, and suddenly everyone was looking at Santana and Quinn. Russell and Pedro met Santana and Quinn in the middle of the floor. The song, Sade’s “Baby father” _,_ picked out by Pedro, was one Santana was extremely familiar with. Junior and senior year of high school, whenever Santana and Mr. Lopez were at odds with each other, he would play the song for her, or come up behind her and say, “Your daddy knows…you’re a flame.” It had even been his ring tone when she was in New York.

Pedro had picked out the song, but it seemed to fit better for Quinn and Russell. They seemed to be having an intense, but unspoken conversation, as they danced together. Half-way through the song, they switched partners, and Santana found herself in Russell Fabray’s arms while Quinn tried to match the sway of Pedro’s hips, the cadence of his steps.

“Thank you, Santana,” Russell said over the music. “For giving me this opportunity.”

Santana frowned at Quinn’s father. “Russ, you have one chance. One chance not to fuck things up with Quinn. Don’t make me regret fighting for you.”

“You don’t have to worry about me, Santana,” he promised. “I won’t.”

Senior and Mercedes joined them on the floor, as well as Junior and Justine, and a few other people. Puck was on the floor, dancing with a blonde. Santana was unable to see who it was before she was turned away from them.

The next time Santana spotted Quinn, she was a bit startled to see Quinn dancing with Hiram Berry. “Where’s Papi?” Santana questioned.

“Someone cut in on me,” Quinn answered. Santana turned, looking for him in the crowd, expecting to see him and her mami once again acting like two teenagers on the dance floor, but when she saw who he was dancing with she just froze. Santana was so startled she didn’t even realize that Quinn had placed a comforting hand on her back. Distantly she heard Quinn excuse herself from Hiram, and felt arms go around her trembling frame. She let out a whimper.

Mr. Lopez and his dance partner turned as the song was ending, and Pedro whispered something in her ear before he kissed her on her cheek. Mrs. Lopez turned to see eyes on her. She narrowed her own, her lips falling into a tight line. She indicated for Mr. Lopez to help her off of the floor. Santana watched her sit back down at her table, at the spot that Santana had left open for her. Melinda shot a look at her nieta. Santana recognized her abuela’s ‘Come here, Santana’ look, and she quickly scampered over to obey.

“Well,” she demanded. Santana waited. Her abuela sat up stiffly in the seat. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to that girl of yours?”

Santana bit down on her lip for a second. She waved over at Quinn who was watching them. Quinn swiftly made it over to their table. “Abuela, este es mi _esposa,”_ she emphasized the word, "Quinn.”

“We’ve met,” Mrs. Lopez said dryly. Santana gave Quinn a questioning look. “She came to my house to demand my attendance,” Melinda said before Quinn could let Santana know that she’d explain later. “Well, so now that I’ve been bullied into it, here I am.” Santana started to say something but was cut off. “I don’t know why you couldn’t have found a man that you could settle down with-,”

Santana sighed. “Abuela-,”

“–but this girl-,”

Santana stopped her. “Abuela, ella es una mujer, no una niña,” she corrected her abuela, feeling the need to defend Quinn, though she still managed to keep her voice respectful. “Y la amo!”

Quinn gave Santana’s hand a squeeze at this. The gesture wasn’t lost on Melinda. “Si. Amour. I loved tu abuelo. He was my everything: my lover, my protector, the father of our children. I don’t agree with this choice that you made, Santana-,” Santana opened her mouth to say what, she wasn’t sure, but her abuela silenced her. “But I see love. Love is…good.”

That seemed all she was going to say about it, and Santana wanted so much more from this woman, but she decided that that was enough. It wasn’t acceptance, it wasn’t an invitation to come back home for Sunday night dinners, but she _was_ here, and she had recognized that they at least loved each other. It was the first time in Santana’s life that the older woman flinched first. So even if it wasn’t everything, it was something, and for now that was enough. “Gracious, abuela.”

Melinda waved the words away. Santana startled when the woman very briefly touched her face. “Although if I were you, I would warn her not to come up on a Lopez’s property and start demanding things porque nos López están locos.”

Quinn flushed, and Santana smiled slightly. It seemed that the matter was, for the moment, closed, and Santana was shifting, wondering if she and Quinn should leave when she heard Mercedes voice rise over the crowd and find their ears, “Sam! Stop it!” Quinn and Santana both looked at each other.

“That doesn’t sound good, does it?” Santana questioned rhetorically.

Quinn sighed. She looked at Santana, at Melinda. Santana looked equally conflicted. “Stay and talk to your grandmother, I’ll take care of it.”

Quinn went rushing off in the direction of her friend’s shout. The closer she got to them the more of them she could hear, and it was just as bad as she suspected. It was like déjà vu, a flashback to junior prom, but instead of Jessie and Finn fighting over Rachel, it was Mercedes, Sam, and Young who were in the middle of a yelling match. The only thing that was stopping it from turning into an all out shoving match (though Quinn was sure that she had just missed that part) was that her friend had pretty much wedged herself in-between Sam and Young. Young looked slightly disheveled, as if he didn’t know what to make of the whole thing, while Mercedes was busy pushing Sam backwards to try to create space between them.

“Sam, you’re being a jerk!” She yelled as she pushed him away from Young. “What the hell are you thinking?”

Sam attempted to reach over Mercedes to push the guy again. “He was being forward! He had his hands all over you!”

“Forward?” Mercedes repeated and silently Quinn was thinking, _Who the hell still says ‘forward’_. “He’s my _date_ , you ass!”

“Yeah, dude, so back off.”

“No one was talking to you,” Sam snapped at Young. “Mercy, you know you only brought him to make me jealous!”

“I don’t live and breathe you, Samuel Newton Evans!” At this Mercedes turned to Young and said, “I’m _so_ sorry.”

Young gave a disdainful look at Sam. “Not your fault, pretty.”

Sam grimaced and tried again to land a punch. He wouldn’t run over Mercedes, so he was seeking out a way around her. Puck, who had been making his way over, took in the situation, and when Sam lunged forward, he quickly stepped in and locked him in a submission hold. “Get off me, Puck!” Sam shouted, fighting to free himself.

Puck shook him. “Then calm the hell down! Dude, you’re making an ass of yourself.”

Santana came striding over a lot quicker than any mortal should be able to move in a pencil gown and three inch heels. She pointed a finger straight in Sam’s chest. “What the hell, Evans. Calm the fuck down, or get the fuck out,” she said in a voice low enough not to carry to the people who were just starting to look towards the commotion. “There will not be a brawl at this reception! If you wanted Mercedes to be your date, you should have called her and asked.” Her voice dropped even lower so only she, Sam, and Puck could hear. “And dude’s fierce; he’d rip you to shreds before you even landed a good punch, and just so you know, pathetic is not a look Mercedes goes for.”

Still seething, Sam looked from Santana, to Young, to an approximation of where Puck was because he couldn’t actually turn his neck around to see him. He jerked away from the hold. Santana was still in between Sam and Young, and Puck was at the ready to grab Sam if the need arose. Sam wasn’t moving forward, but he didn’t seem to be moving back either.

“Mercedes,” Sam said, eyes pleading.

Santana caught herself giving him the serious stink-eye. “Seriously, Evans. She’s with Young, you…where’s _your_ date?”

Sam seemed to have remembered that he actually came with someone. The second he looked properly chastised, Santana locked eyes with Mercedes. “Okay, Aretha, isn’t it about time to gift us with whatever singing concoction I know you, and Berry, and whoever else cooked up?”

Santana was kind of regretting not letting Sam and Young work this out at the Bachelor’s party. Oh well, hindsight’s 20/20.

Mercedes was so surprised at getting caught that she forgot to be angry and embarrassed for a second. “We’re didn’t plan anything,” Mercedes said unconvincingly.

“Oh come off it, I wasn’t born yesterday. I know you and Rachel didn’t get your singing all out of your system on Sunday, so let’s get on with it, and then maybe everyone can freaking _chill_ , right? This is a celebration!”

Mercedes went striding over to Rachel. When she was gone, Santana cut her eyes at Sam. “Okay, look Evans. I only like you three days out of the year, and today isn’t one of those days. I don’t know what the hell your problem is, but it won’t be here, you get me?”

“I got you,” he grumbled.

“Do you?” Santana demanded.

“I said I got you.”

There was a very loud tapping. “Hello?” Santana grunted because Rachel Berry had gotten ahold of a microphone. For a few seconds she contemplated which was the greater of the two evils: Rachel in control, or letting Young and Sam get into an all-out brawl at her wedding. The result would most likely end up with Sam in the hospital, though Young didn’t really strike her as the kind of guy who would find himself in a brawl at a wedding.

“As some of you undoubtedly know, I’m the Rachel Berry, and I, and some of my friends, have put together a little mash-up of songs as a gift from us,” she touched her chest, “to the brides.”

“You guys ready?”

Sam looked like a kicked puppy as he made his way over to Rachel. Young moved to sit back in his seat. Puck gave Santana an apologetic grin before he jogged to catch up with Sam. Reluctantly Santana led Quinn back to their table. “To anyone who hasn’t been there for every step of the way, we’ve prepared for you a reenactment through song! One, two THREE!”

They then sat through a seven and a half minute medley of songs that told the story of their relationship, starting with Maroon 5 “One More Night”. In what had to be the definition of irony, Sam and Puck staged a pretend fight, before they started singing, “ _You and I go hard, at each other, like we’re going to war._ ”

From Maroon 5 they moved to a quick blurb of Green Day’s “Dirty Little Secret” to Michael Jackson’s _Keep it in the_ Closet, which included a William Schuester rap number. Next came an acoustic snippet of Lifehouse’s “Hanging by a Moment”sung briefly by Sam and Puck. The music moved from Lifehouse to Selena’s “I could fall in love,” sung by Marley. From slow and haunting the singing and dancing and acting moved to an upbeat and jaunty Bruno Mars’ “I think I want to marry you”. The last song on the dossier was a 80s dance beat, which included the gayest dance ever sung to CeCe’s Peniston’s “Finally” sung by Rachel and Mercedes. _"Finally, it's happened to me, right in front of my face, and I just can't deny it._ "

And then, _finally,_ it was over.

There was applause, and Rachel, being Rachel, actually bowed.

“You should have just let her make a speech,” Quinn said teasingly at the look on Santana’s face.

Santana rolled her eyes. “We need new friends, babe,” she said. She stalked off towards Rachel and Mercedes.

“I think it’s too late,” Quinn called after her. “We’re stuck with them for life!”

There was a shifting behind her, and a tentative voice said, “Your friends are fun.” Quinn froze at the sound of that voice. She wondered whether it was possible to recognize a voice she had never heard before, but she knew right in that second who that voice belonged to.

“Beth.” She gaped as the girl stepped into her line of sight. Beth didn’t seem to know what to do with herself either, but she was certainly Quinn’s daughter because her back stiffened as she gazed at Quinn in pride, with eyes that were foreign, yet all so familiar.

“HI,” she said, almost defiantly. Quinn didn’t know whether she should hug her or shake her hand, or wait for Beth to make the first move. After half a minute, and then another, she decided that she didn’t care what she _should_ do. Besides kids were supposed to be embarrassed by their parents.

Beth was able to make out one glimpse of a smile flash on Quinn’s face before she was pulled into Quinn’s arms. “Hi!” Quinn kind of pushed her back so she could get a better view. Beth seemed to be an almost even blend of her and Noah. The platinum blonde hair that she’d had as a baby was now a very light golden brown. She had Noah’s eyes, and Quinn’s ears, and Noah’s mouth, and Quinn’s pre-surgery nose, which caused Quinn to stare (but not in a bad way, more like an ‘oh, so that’s what it used to look like’ kind of way).

She was a little bigger than Quinn’s high school weight, and even though she seemed to have Puck’s eyes, apparently she had inherited Quinn’s vision, because she was confidentially wearing a pair of very stylish, nearly razor thin glasses. She was her baby, she was a teenager. She was perfect.

“You’re big,” Quinn stupidly remarked.

“Yep. I hear that happens when you feed and water kids.” She shrugged half a shoulder, in a very Santana kind of way.

Quinn was startled to discover that her daughter was actually taller than she was. It was just an inch, but still. That shouldn’t have been allowed.

Beth momentarily seemed to lose her confidence. “I hope it’s okay that I’m here. You look really surprised to see me.”

“Of course it’s okay, Beth!” Quinn said quickly, before the girl could go rush off. “I wasn’t expecting you, but thank you, thank you for being here! How are you? Are you happy? How are you doing in school? Do you have good friends?” Quinn just tossed out the questions, rapid fire, but she just had so many. Beth must think she’s completely weird.

“Whoa,” Beth laughed. “That’s a lot of questions. I didn’t think you’d be this…eager…to…well I thought maybe you might be mad.”

“Mad?”

“Because I’m not supposed to just show up, not until I’m 18 anyway.”

“Oh,” Quinn said. “No, I’m not mad.”

“School’s good. I’ve got two best friends, Aaron and Wylie, and we’re starting a band.”

“Really? What’re you going to name it?”

“Faded Blue Avocado.” Beth delivered that statement as if she were challenging Quinn to question the awesomeness of it, and of course Quinn didn’t.

“Sounds…unique.”

“People say that when they think something’s strange, but it’s not like _Beatles_ was normal, or “YellowSubmarine” _._ ”

Quinn stopped herself from mentioning that “yellow submarine” had been old fashioned slang for a dildo, because this was a child in front of her. Her child. _Oh my God_. This was the little, itty-bitty watermelon sized girl that she had given birth. She blinked, attempting to remind herself not to stare. She needed something to talk about. What did teenagers like? “So…are you dating anyone? Aaron? Or Wylie?”

“Umm…Wylie is dating her girlfriend, Mischa, and Aaron’s kind of weird. Not like ‘hide girls in the basement weird’, but I don’t see him that way.” So Wylie was a girl, and a lesbian, apparently. Quinn wondered if her daughter was a lesbian; was that kind of thing genetic? “I’m not really into dating right now. I’m into our band. And orienteering. You know tracking across ground? Me and mom do it every other weekend.”

Quinn was aware of a sudden presence seconds before she heard, “Holy Sh…Stanley Cup, you’re Beth!”

Beth smiled, and Quinn was silently thankful for the reinforcements. “I am,” Beth asserted. She held a hand out to Santana. Both women looked at the colored marker on the back of the teen’s hand. “And you’re Santana, right. Quinn’s wife?”

Santana nodded, staring open mouthed at the girl until she realized that she was holding a hand out to her. They shook. “Yep, that’s me.” Santana suddenly turned to Quinn. “I didn’t invite her, so if you’re thinking about blowing up at me later-,”

“My…Puck did,” Beth informed both of them. “I’m his date.”

“Oh.”

“Please don’t be mad at him.”

Santana was contemplating punching him because of the shock, but she wasn’t mad. She looked at Quinn. Was Quinn mad? She didn’t appear mad. She looked shocked, and happy, and sad, and everything in between. “Well, of course I’m going to be mad at him, but that’s just because that’s our default. I’m not mad he invited you, we’re both very glad you came. Is Shelby…um your mom, is she here?”

“Mom’s visiting some friends of hers in Roxbury. She’ll be back to pick me up later.”

“Oh.”

Santana thought to intervene on behalf of the two of them. “Babe, why don’t you introduce her to Judy and Russell, and I’m going to go tell the DJ that it’s mariachi band time, and then she can be your salsa partner. Savvy?”

Quinn looked to her daughter. “Can you dance?”

At this Beth’s face lit up. “I’ve been in classes since I was three!”

“Geez, she’s Berry junior,” Santana said, her voice low enough that it didn’t carry to the girl’s ears. “You should introduce her to Rachel.” Santana turned to Beth. “Do you know Berry?”

“Berry?” Beth repeated in confusion. “Oh! _Rachel_! Yeah, we go to see her plays once a year. She’s funny!”

Both Quinn and Santana bit down on their lip at this statement, but said nothing. Santana excused herself, and did like she said. The floor was cleared for the promised salsa dance. Santana paired up with Benny, and it quickly became a competition between the cousins, her parents, and her aunt and uncle. Even Maribel was coaxed back to her feet by Carlos, and she proved that despite her age, she still knew how to move.

After a few songs, the floor was cleared once again so that they could cut the cakes. Both Quinn and Santana only took the smallest bit of cake available. They fed each other, and surveyed the revelry around them. Santana flicked off the fondant that her piece of cake was covered in in disgust. Quinn watched her wife wage war on the cake. “I just don’t get the whole fondant thing, I really don’t. It’s not even edible.” Santana’s eyes looked up and landed on Mercedes and Sam, who were busy arguing off to the side. “Poor Young.”

“Why poor Young?” Quinn questioned. “Don’t you mean poor Sam?”

Santana looked back to the sight of Mercedes yelling at Sam, and Sam just as furiously arguing back with her. “No, I mean poor Young. They’re yelling at each other like we yell at each other,” Santana said.

Quinn understood what Santana meant. “Oh. Poor Young,” she echoed. “I was hoping that it’d work out between the two of them.”

“Me too, but horses and water, babe, horses and water.” 

“But he was cute,” Quinn said in a fake-pout. “And a gentleman. And Sam’s-,”

“Hopeless.”

“I wasn’t going to say that! I was going to say he was a hopeless romantic. Mercedes admits their last break up was her fault, so it’s understandable that he made a scene. Wouldn’t you?”

Santana stuck her fork into the cake. “I bet the vagina would have tasted better.” 

The last half hour of the reception broke all party rules, as Shout _,_ the Cha Cha Slide, the Electric Slide, the Cupid Shuffle, the Wobble _,_ and just because the DJ was feeling nostalgic, the Hustle, the Macarena, and Las Ketchup Dance were played one right after the other. After so much dancing in a row, those who were mere mortals reclaimed their seats, and someone, presumably a Lopez, requested a Shakira song, and that was it. A silent coup had been waged, and won, and the floor was completely turned over to the older people and merengue, cumbia, salsa, and rumba beats dominated the rest of the night.

Santana pulled an exhausted Quinn to her feet. “I’m going to teach you how to do the Bachata!”

“San, right now I just want to teach you how to do the sleep.”

Santana giggled at her wife. “Aw…is my baby ready for night-night?”

“Yes,” Quinn pouted. She draped herself across Santana. “Carry me?”

Santana rolled her eyes. “Tha Fuck for, Fablo? I told you before, I don’t have to try anymore: I already got you.”

But Santana lowered Quinn back to her chair, and started to make her rounds to let people know that they were leaving soon. A few minutes later, Santana was half carrying a very tired Quinn to her car, and when they got back to the apartment, Santana carried her all the way up the stairs, and over the threshold, bridal style.


	32. The Paper Pusher

Even though the drive to the Vineyard wasn’t long, by the time they pulled up to the Winnetu Oceanside Resort, located on the South beach of Martha’s Vineyard, Santana was feeling sleepy. She wanted lunch, sex, and a nap, in that order, and was looking forward to the two of those things that she could actually have. Blinking at the brightness of the sun as she stepped from their car, she paused for a moment to slide on her sunglasses and let out a yawn. She stretched out until she heard something crack, before she rushing around to the other side of the car to open the door for Quinn.

“I know it’s no Cabo,” Santana said in a self-depreciating way as Quinn’s hand found its way into her own and she was pulled to her feet, “but I think this is a nice substitute.”

The location of their rendezvous was more Quinn’s ideal than Santana’s. The resort was abound with summer dresses, cardigans, polo shirts, colorful shorts, pull-overs, madras shirts, and sun hats. And kids. Lots of them. They navigated through the families in the lobby, only to run into Stepford children at every turn. One of the little boys that seemed to be parentless was tow-headed, and it made her wonder what a male Fabray would look like. God, hopefully not like Russell. She didn’t think that she could love a child that looked like Russell. Now a little Santana on the other hand, boy or girl would looked incredibly hot.

Surprisingly, giving the venue, Quinn slid her hand into Santana’s, and met her surprised expression with a grin.

Their bags were sat down in the bedroom, and after the bellhop left, Quinn immediately went to unloading their suitcases into the drawers, while Santana explored their suite. Santana thought that the garden cottages were more ‘honey-moonish’, but the Sankaty suite had an ocean view, so she had gone with that instead. She paused to take in a scene that made the fact that they were staying in one of the top family resorts in the country worth it.

“Babe, come take a look at this view!”

Quinn took a moment to finish unpacking before she went in search of Santana. She paused at the image of her wife framed on the balcony, her hair whipping around her, the pond visible, as well as the enticing view of the ocean in the distance. Quinn reached for her camera, and managed to get it out and aimed at her wife before Santana turned slightly. “Babe?” Quinn clicked the picture. Santana smiled in surprise. “What’re you doing, Quinn?”

“Enjoying the scenery. It’s gorgeous.” Quinn sat the camera down, and slipped behind Santana, wrapping her arms around her waist. She rested her head on her shoulder. “Oh, and the view is nice, too.” Quinn placed a few kisses on Santana’s exposed neck before just resting her head there. “What’re you thinking about?” Quinn questioned.

Santana’s fingers trailed on the arms that held her. “That no one but me gets to be here with you like this. How all of those silly, naïve people over the years thought that they ever had a real shot with you. How so many people tried, yet I’m the one who succeeded in netting you.”

“I am not some prize to be won,” Quinn said in mock outrage.

Santana smiled. “And I was thinking about how lucky I am that I married a woman who can quote Disney movies but yet can talk about the existential crisis of the female protagonist in Aladdin.”

“Did you say existential?” Quinn mused, nibbling on Santana’s neck.

“Er… I meant really hard things.”

Santana smiled when Quinn chuckled. Santana turned so that she could kiss her wife. “And I was thinking about how I get to taste these lips, and smell this smell, and how I could rip off the clothes on your body, and fuck you against every surface possible, and that you’d let me. Or that I can eat you for breakfast, lunch or dinner, whenever I want, forever and ever, though you know how much I really like those ‘afternoon delights’ best of all.”

Quinn shook her head. “Ms. Pillsbury was so clueless.”

“Mrs. Schuester, you mean.”

Quinn rolled her eyes. “Please tell me that you’re as creeped out by them as I am. Emma’s cool and all, and she’s got a surprisingly bigger backbone than I thought, but there’s just something about them that seems…predatory.”

“Right!”

“So I’m not the only one?”

“Oh hell no. Like what does it say about Schuester that he made a teenager his best man, and he married a virgin who made him her whole world?” Santana shrugged. “To each their own, I guess.” Santana got quiet again, thinking. “You ever wonder what the Gleeks say about us? You think, like, right now Tina or Rachel or Artie are sitting around discussing us? When they got my text do you think anyone was like ‘About damn time,’ or ‘what the hell’?"

“That was my first thought when I first got the text,” Quinn joked. “ _Quinn and Santana got married? Did the world end and I didn’t notice_?’”

“Oh fuck you, Fabray.”

“I wish you would,” Quinn got out before Santana was even done with her statement. Santana merely chuckled. “What do you think they said?”

Santana preened, puffing up her chest. “That we’re fucking awesome. And we’re fucking awesome together. And we’re awesome fucking, too.”

“One, you can’t talking about fucking, unless you’re going to fuck me. Two, I was thinking they were thinking more along the lines of how they can’t believe how whipped you’ve become.”

“Ah, that’s not nice, baby. You don’t have to say that you’re whipped. Even though I completely made you my bitch.” Santana punctuated her words with a quick cheek kiss.

“You are _so_ my bitch, Lopez. I’m still me but you, you turned into a complete and total softie.”

Santana flexed her slightly larger than high school biceps. “Keep telling yourself that,” she said in a low voice, which went directly from Santana’s mouth to Quinn’s abdomen. 

Quinn hummed. “I love you, San.”

Santana luxuriated in sound of those words washing over her. “Love you, too, babe.”

“And just so we’re clear, you didn’t tame Quinn Fabray.”

“Oh please, I have you _begging_ for it. ‘Oh, oh oh God Santana, Fuck me. I’m your little bitch!”

“I’ve never said that I was your little bitch.”

“Don’t worry, babe, you will.”

“Sometimes I wonder if I’m a masochist.”

“Ooh….we should explore! I bet you would make a great submissive. Once I get a ball gag on you, and a collar, ooh and a butt plug stretching you out and making you pliable for when I hit it fro the back,” Santana ground against Quinn for good measure, “I bet I could have you licking my boots.”

“It’s good that you work in fiction, because that’s some imagination you got there. On what planet would I be a sub when you are so obviously my bottom?”

“Quinne, where are your manners? You’re not supposed to talk with a full mouth, and right now your mouth is completely full of shit.”

* * *

Santana was in her own little world as she packed her things, slowly ticking off of the things on her list. She wasn’t a plan packer, she was a last minute, stuff everything in her bag, kind of girl, but since this was business, and serious and stuff, she was packing in advance. When all that was left to pack were the items that she wouldn’t pack until the morning, Santana went off in search of her wife who had surprisingly not been hanging around her as she packed. Santana found her sitting on the couch, surprisingly watching TV instead of curled up with a book. 

Santana plopped down beside her. “What’re you watching, babe?”

Quinn, who had been half falling asleep, smiled at Santana sleepily. “Bones.”

Santana gave her a kiss on the neck. “I love Bones! Which episode?”

Quinn checked. “The Proof in the Pudding.” She began to read off the description, “Mr. White and his team of gov-,”

Santana took the remote from Quinn’s hand and turned the TV off. “Hey!” Quinn protested. “I was watching that!”

Santana wrapped her arms around her waist, dropping her head onto Quinn’s shoulder. “I need to talk to you about something.”

“Well, you didn’t have to just like turn it off like that,” she protested. She got a glance at Santana’s expression and sobered at the same time that Santana said, “It’s serious talk. Babe.”

The expression froze on Quinn’s face. “Oh. How serious?” she questioned.

Instead of immediately answering, Santana walked over to the alcove, and came back with a thick hard-back book in her hand. _Patriot Games_. She sat back down across from Quinn, sitting on her knee, the book planted on her lap. Quinn eyed the book.

“Real serious,” Santana replied. “K, so this is just an uncomfortable conversation so I just want to have it real quick, like ripping a Band-Aid off.” Santana’s back straightened and she seemed to be steeling herself. Quinn carefully felt a mask slide into place. She had that sinking feeling in her gut, but was preparing for whatever her wife was about to say. They both exhaled the same breath they were holding in.

“So, I’m leaving first thing in the morning. 5:30.” Quinn sighed, because she wasn’t looking forward to the next three weeks without her wife. “I’ll be back at 9:45 p.m. It makes me…somewhat uncomfortable…to be away for that long, so I have a few requests, pleas, and instructions. Umm…first one, it’ll make me 10 times more comfortable if you spend the night either with Mercedes, Brittany, Hazel, or at your place; just not here. If you want to play super sleuth while I’m gone,” she winked, “that’s fine. You can dig all you want, but please do it during the daytime hours. I don’t want you sleeping here alone.”

Santana seemed to be waiting for Quinn to say something, but Quinn was busy processing. Moving on. “Two. If you can, and I know this is asking for a great deal, but _if_ you can, please visit Hazel. You don’t have to do it a lot or anything, just like once…maybe? Umm…and you really, really don’t have to do this, I just…if you _do_ go over to see her, can you give Phil a kiss for me, and to remind him that I love him?”

Quinn gave the most imperceptible of nods, and Santana looked instantly relieved, playing with the book in her hands. “Okay, this is probably the most important one of all. What’s my magic numbers?” Quinn rolled her eyes. “Quinnie, it’s important. What’s my magic numbers?”

Quinn’s eyes narrowed. “Umm…55…09…15…er,”

“02 13, those are really important Quinn. I know it’s on that picture, but I really need you to know those numbers by heart. Think of it as a date if it helps: 02-13-15, 09:55 or 09-15-55, 02:13.”

“Okay, got it.”

“Do you?” Santana demanded.

“I got it.”

“What are they?”

“09 15 55 02 13. Do those numbers have any particular meaning to you?”

Santana smiled with her eyes. “Yes, those numbers mean practically everything to me, actually. Like I said, any kind of combination lock, or code, or whatever that I possess uses those numbers in varying combinations. While I’m away, I need you to promise me,” Santana’s eyes bored into Quinn’s intensely, “to get me a Wednesday and Saturday Powerball ticket.”

Quinn pushed Santana away as Santana laughed. “That’s so not funny,” Quinn said.

“I’m serious! Watch: the second you don’t buy a ticket, that’s the second that those numbers hit!”

“You know that Powerball is the same in every state, so you can buy your own tickets; Arizona has a lottery right?”

“Yes, but it’s not the same. Boston could use the win.”

“You are absolutely ridiculous, San, I want you to know that.”

Santana leaned over to kiss her, but the book got in the way. Quinn’s eyes fell to it, and when she looked back up she could see the serious look on her wife’s face. “I didn’t know you were a Tom Clancy fan.”

It was a bad attempt at a joke, and for a second Santana’s face scrunched up in confusion, and then she seemed to remember what she was holding. “Oh. That’s the other part of what I wanted to talk to you about.”

She ran her finger along the cut pages of the book. When Santana opened the first page of the book, Quinn saw how only the first few pages were actually loose like regular book pages, the rest were solid. Santana removed what was hidden inside. “Umm…I know we only briefly talked about this, but this is for you. It’s a U22 Neos Inox.”

Quinn eyed the gun that Santana was holding, and not knowing what else to say, she said, “That looks pretty fancy.”

Santana gave a soft chuckle. “It’s actually a beginner gun; for people who buy guns for looks and not…well…actual use. It’s a .22, but it still does its job.” As she talked Santana disassembled the gun in practiced movements, breaking it down to its individual components. Quinn thought about Santana once saying that she could assemble her gun, blindfolded, in 15 seconds. Santana caught Quinn’s look, and gave a lopsided smile. Bring her eyes up to Quinn’s, she sat the book aside, and without taking her eyes off of her, she put the gun back together, and took it apart faster than Quinn could keep up. Quinn forgot to count; really, Quinn forgot to breathe. And even though she wasn’t a big advocate of guns, there was something about it that-,

Quinn surged forward, pushing Santana back on the bed, her lips pressing firmly to Santana’s. “Really, babe, that does it for you?” Santana questioned.

Quinn ignored the statement, because she couldn’t say what it was that turned her on so much, and she didn’t want to think about it. Instead she pinned Santana to the bed, hands immediately falling to the bottom of her shirt. Santana reluctantly pulled her lips away. “Umm…babe?”

“Sssh,” Quinn hissed.

Santana pulled away again. Quinn grunted, but settled on attacking her neck. “I’d be more than happy to make out with you, it’s just, you know fire arms and sexy times…they don’t really go hand in hand.”

“It’s disassembled.”

“Yea, but still.”

Quinn gave a louder grunt, but she let Santana up. Santana went about collecting the parts of the gun. She had to get down on her knees to collect the slide, which had slipped under the bed. She recovered it and sat back down beside Quinn. She was actually surprised that Quinn was taking this so well. “It’s all cleaned, so there’s no reason for you to have to take it apart, but you should always know the parts of a gun. Have you ever fired a weapon before?”

“Russell took me shooting a couple of times.”

Santana rolled her eyes. “Of course he did.” Despite her response, Santana instructed her as if she had never handled a gun before. She quickly went over the parts of the Beretta. She showed her how to load the gun, how to put on and take off the safety, how to point, how to aim, how to break it back down. “If someone comes at you, you aim for the chest. Center mass. Don’t aim for the arm, or the leg, or the heart, because most likely you’ll miss; you aim dead center, it’s the biggest target.”

Quinn swallowed, staring down at the weapon when Santana held it out to her. “Should I be worried?”

“There’s no reason that you should be, no.”

“And yet you’re handing me a gun.”

“Because I won’t be here for three weeks, and say the zombie apocalypse happens. You’ll need it to kill the fools standing in your way in front of the water.”

“You can’t kill a zombie with a gun.”

“You can’t _kill_ a zombie, period, and yes, yes you can kill zombies with guns. And I didn’t say the gun was for zombies, I said that it was for the people standing in front of your water. You try to use that to save your life from zombies, you may as well just put some hot sauce on them brains of yorn cause they’re already history.”

“Did you say just say ‘yorn’?”

“Yes, it’s the perfect participle form of yours.”

“That doesn’t even come…just no.” Quinn gently took the book out of Santana’s hand, looking it over. “Just when I think that I’m starting to understand you, I find out that you keep a spare gun in _Patriot Games_.”

“I like irony, babe,” Santana said in reply.

“So are you actually copping to being a spy now?”

Santana cocked her head to the side. “Jack Ryan wasn’t a spy. He was an analyst.”

“Didn’t he eventually work for the CIA?”

“Spoiler Alert, babe! And I honestly don’t know, it’s been so long since I’ve read any of the books.” Santana’s serious face came back down. “Okay, so I also put an additional 15k in the safe in my closet, which is why you need to know my numbers, and there’s 25 more in Treasure Island. I don’t actually anticipate anything happening, this is just like prepper stuff. You know, always be prepared and all that. So there’s 50k in cash around the apartment if you need it, and I’ve got a locked box at the bank, but that’s for like a real serious emergency, and you have to call Puck before you actually open the box, which reminds me, I programmed Detective Stef Thiessen’s number into your phone. He’s an officer at the Boston Police Department. Mostly he’s a good friend who fixes parking tickets for me but if you need anything, you can call him, and he’ll help you out.”

Santana seemed to be going through a mental check list. “I think that’s everything. Umm…do you know of anything that I forgot? Besides that I love you?”

Quinn thought about it, feeling the weight of the gun in the book, and thinking about the money just lying around the apartment. “Where do you hide the chocolate?” She had every plan on checking Robert Cormier’s _The Chocolate War_ as soon as she was alone.

Santana smiled. “That’s my secret, and I’m keeping it.”

“You really won’t tell me?”

Santana shook her head. “Nope.”

“You sure?”

“Yep.”

Quinn pinned Santana down. “Babe,” Santana said warningly.

“You sure you’re not going to tell me?” Quinn demanded.

“I am trained to detain a hostile combatant. You’re going to want to think really hard about what you’re about to do.”

Quinn lowered her hands menacingly. “Are you telling me that big, bad Santana Lopez is ticklish?”

“Quinn…” her hands moved lower. Santana started laughing in anticipation. “You better not…”

Quinn dug her fingers into Santana’s sides. Santana struggled, trying to get Quinn off of her but she was powerless beneath her. Quinn tickled her until Santana was breathless, and then she let up for only a few seconds before she started again.

“S-stop, Q!”

“What’s that?” Quinn said, pretending like she couldn’t hear her.

“Quinnie…puh-please?”

She dug in harder. “Who’s the top?”

Santana struggled for breath, “Yo-you, you.”

Quinn halted her attack, and watched as Santana’s breathing slowly returned to normal. Hey it wasn’t an orgasm, but it was kind of, sort of as good. A little.

“You’re evil,” Santana pouted.

“But you still love me.”

Santana lifted as high as she could to give Quinn a kiss. “Only when you put out, babe.” Santana rolled with Quinn as she sat up, switching their positions. She hovered over her wife. “Payback time.”

Quinn only smirked. “I’m not ticklish.” Santana rolled her hips between Quinn’s legs.

“That’s okay, I know your other weaknesses.”

“That’s not fair!”

Santana silenced her with her lips, biting down softly on Quinn’s lower lip. She tugged gently, delighting when Quinn rewarded her with a low moan. Santana pinned her arms down over her head.

Santana pulled down the collar of Quinn’s blouse with her teeth, placing kisses on the newly exposed skin. “I know you think that you can get away with whatever you’re thinking since you’re not going to be here for the next three weeks, but I just want to remind you, you still have to spend the rest of your life with me.”

She gave an impish grin to Quinn. “Unh huh.” Santana rolled her hips again, applying a little more pressure to her wife’s very neglected core. “That’d just be wrong of me. To tease and not go through with it,” she said, continuing to tease.

“Santana...”

“I wouldn’t do that to you, babe.”

Quinn pulled her down on top of her, fixing her eyes on Santana. The look that Quinn gave her instantly made her stop canting her hips.

“What are you really going to do, S?”

Santana rolled off Quinn, drawing her up with her. “Locate some stolen equipment and recover it before it gets sold.” Quinn stared at her with a penetrating stare that hit Santana all the way to the gut.

She gestured. “Then what’s all this about? Really?”

Santana chewed on her lip. “I haven’t been away from you like this before.”

“We’ve spent months apart in the past,” Quinn reminded her.

Her words did nothing to ease the frown on Santana’s face. “Yes, but not since we got married. For my piece of mind, I just…I need to know that you’ll be safe.”

Quinn gave her wife a condescending look. “Geez, San, you think this marriage thing turned me into a complete pussy, don’t you? I’m still Quinn Fabray. Lopez.”

Santana’s face lit up. “I thought you hated that word!”

“It makes my point,” Quinn dismissed. “I know how to take care of myself. I survived Russell _and_ McKinley High.”

She nodded in agreement. “I know. You’re a force to be reckoned with. But like I said before, and if you tell anyone I said this I will totally and mercilessly end you, but I know you’re strong, and fierce, but I’m weak. I’m not doing this for you, I’m doing this for me.”

Quinn hid a smile with an eye roll. “Okay, but you’re close to reaching Edward Cullen levels of possessiveness.”

“Oh please, babe! I haven’t gone so far as to buy you an armored car because I don’t think that you can walk down the street without tripping if I’m not there to protect you, and when are you just going to admit that you had a thing for R.Pat?”

“You seem awfully well versed on a series that you’re so down on.”

“I work in marketing children’s fiction; I was practically forced to down that misogynistic codependent garbage. If I _ever_ get to the point where, I don’t know, I have to follow you into the bathroom every time you pee, do the world a favor and put me out of my misery.”

Quinn gave a halfway smirk. “Duly noted.” She slipped a hand into her wife’s holding it firmly. With her free she stroked Santana’s cheek. “If it makes you feel any better, I’m not all that strong either.”

They watched television together until it got late enough that it was time for bed. The TV was turned off, they changed, and crawled in beside each other, Quinn turning out the light. Santana was the big spoon tonight, and she cradled Quinn softly in her arms, her head resting on Quinn’s pillow. She closed her eyes, but she couldn’t get her brain to shut off enough to fall asleep, even once it sounded like Quinn’s breathing was evening out.

“Santana?” Quinn’s voice called, breaking the silence that the two had been floating in for the past hour or so. “You awake?”

Santana didn’t want to admit that she was because that would mean that she had things on her mind that were preventing her from falling asleep. “Yea, babe, I’m awake, what’s up?”

Quinn turned, rolling closer to Santana. She reached for her hand. “You are coming back to me, right?”

Santana could tell that Quinn had been dying to ask those words all day, that she had sat on them, had fought with herself over asking them, but had finally broken down. It pained her that her wife had had that worry.

Santana tried to kiss reassurance into the top of her head. “Don’t be stupid, Quinn. It’s taken me years to train you; of course I’m coming back. I don’t want anyone else benefitting from all my hard work.”

* * *

Santana woke up early after very little sleep, and was pleased with herself for having loaded the car the night before so she didn’t have to bother with doing it now. She mentally ran through her check-list, marking off the items one by one. She let Quinn sleep up until the moment that they had to leave.

“Will you be okay getting around while I’m gone?” Santana questioned, anxiously once they were in the car.

“Santana, I’ve managed to live 29 years without a chauffeur; I think I can manage three weeks.”

“But I know how much you don’t like to drive, babe.”

Quinn’s hand came down on top of Santana’s. “I’ll be fine.” Santana would call Mercedes when she got to New York.

When they got up to the check-in, Santana asked for a moment from Quinn, as she wheeled her luggage up to the counter.

“I’m traveling with firearms,” Santana told the ticket agent when she was going through the standard questions. She removed the two hard-cased locked boxes from her biggest suitcase, and when given the go ahead, she opened each box, showing the unloaded firearms. She had her Bond gun, and the one from beneath their bed. The box that it belonged in was still where it was supposed to be, and since Quinn couldn’t open that box, and she didn’t know about the Bond gun, there was no reason for her to know that Santana was traveling with firearms. She was already worried enough as it was.

After Santana’s bags were out of sight, she and Quinn lingered as long as possible outside of the security check point. When Santana only had a few minutes left before she had to be at her gate, she finally told Quinn what she had been putting off saying. “I sent you an email with my itinerary. I’ll call you when I get to New York, and when I land in Tucson.” She paused. “I don’t have my cell on me. It’s sitting on my pillow back at the apartment.”

Quinn’s face scrunched up at this pronouncement. She purposely misunderstood her. “Do you want me to overnight it to you?”

“No. I can’t travel with it,” she quickly explained. “Once I leave Tucson, you can overnight it to me, or I can get a phone, and we can talk until we’re both blue in the face, but while I’m in Tucson you won’t be able to reach me on my cell.”

The information slowly sank in with Quinn. “I’m not going to be able to talk to you for three weeks?”

“No, just one,” Santana corrected. “Hopefully, not even that long. And we’ll be able to talk; I mean, I’ll call you when I can, and we’ll talk. We won’t go that whole time without talking. I promise, I’ll call whenever I can. I just can’t take my phone.”

Santana watched Quinn go from angry to looking really, really small. Santana would have preferred angry Quinn to this uncertain and afraid one standing in front of her. She was completely thrown off when Quinn pulled her to her, bringing her forehead down to touch hers. “You swear…you’re coming back?”

She only hesitated for a few seconds before she nodded. “Three weeks, and then I’m back. I swear on everything that I am.” Quinn kissed her like she was kissing her good-bye.

“Quinn…” but she didn’t know what to say past that. So she kissed her again, before she pulled away to get on her flight. 

Santana felt shitty. She felt terrible. She had sat on this information, but couldn’t bring herself to tell Quinn because the cell phone silence made it sound like Santana was doing something dangerous, and Santana really didn’t want her wife to have that image sitting in her head all these weeks, or even days. She didn’t want it to keep her up during the night. It was simple. Cell phones had GPS in them, you could track someone via GPS. Santana also had a ‘safe’ laptop. One that was sent to her by the agency whenever she did field work. One that had a security system on it that you couldn’t buy at Best Buy. She didn’t have a smart phone, though.

She didn’t normally do field work. This was just one of the few times since she was 19 years old, and really she wasn’t working in the ‘field’ so much as she was assisting. It had never bothered her before. She had never gone into it with so much nerves. It was just that this was the first time in her entire life that she felt like she was actually _leaving_ someone to do her work. Sure Puck was her brother, and Brittany was her best friend, and there were her parents, her aunts, uncles, siblings, and abuela; she had friends, but that was something holy different than leaving your wife behind. She didn’t like the feeling at all.

* * *

When Bryne answered the door she was the most dressed down that Santana had ever seen her (not that Santana had ever seen her dressed up, even in a club she was a minimalist). She was dressed in a pair of black dress pants, and a plain white wife beater. Her hair, black, was pulled back into a ponytail. Her eyes casually took in Santana’s appearance.

“How was the wedding?” she questioned.

Santana smiled, but then sighed. “It was good; stressful, and I hate having to leave her like that when we should be on the beach right now.”

Bryne gave a wry smile. “I can’t do anything about the beach,” she said apologetically, “but I hear the desert can be magical.”

Without warning, she pushed Santana up against the door. Santana watched her with an amused smile on her face.

“What’s your wife think you’re doing right now?”

An overwhelming feeling of guilt welled up in her. “Work.”

“That’s it?” Santana nodded.

Santana pushed back against Bryne, only to be pushed back into the door. “Nicht bewegen,” she commanded. “Don’t move.”

Santana stood still, the smirk back in place. Bryne’s hand slowly moved down one thigh first, before moving on to the slide deftly down the other. Her fingers traveled lightly over Santana’s lower back, before moving them across the front of her abdomen. Santana’s breath hitched for a second when Bryne’s hands brushed over her breast, curling back over her shoulder. “Drei,” she said confidently when she was done.

Santana kept her face blank, tilting her head.

Bryne unbuttoned the top button of Santana’s jeans, undoing the zipper halfway. Fingers slid into the waist band of Santana’s underwear. “Ein.” She counted. She unbuttoned her blouse, pushing the fabric off of her shoulders so it pooled on the floor. “Zwei.” Santana’s smirk grew when Bryne reached for the bottom of her wife beater, tugging it upwards. Bryne gave a questioning look at the completely unsexy bra that Santana had chosen to wear, trailing a finger along the top of her bra before tugging softly on it. “Drei.”

Santana gave Bryne a triumphant grin. “Zwei,” she corrected.

“I counted three.”

“Check the shoulder holster again.”

Bryne looked to the holster that had been discarded with her shirt. She picked the item up, her hand tightening around it.

“Drei,” Santana said, happily. 

“What the hell, Santana! Is this a toy?”

“No, it’s a lighter, I saw it at the gas station.”

“Where’s your service revolver?”

“In my bag.”

“When’s the last time you fired off a shot?”

“I took all three to the range before I got on the plane.”

Bryne kind of flicked it at Santana. “Get rid of it,” she commanded. “Knowing you, you’d forget you’d have the damn thing and reach for that instead of your gun, and unless you can burn a place down in three seconds flat, a fat lot of good it will do you.”

Santana’s smile didn’t falter; Bryne was a sore loser.

“You’re still so young,” she remarked. “I don’t like the hip holster, either.”

Santana removed the Walther from the hip holster before buttoning her pants back up. “What’s wrong with it? I was going to use a thigh holster, but I’d have to wear a skirt for that to be in any way convenient. Or shorts, and that just stops traffic.”

“You have to unbutton your pants to get at it, and that’s just wasted seconds. Stick with the bra and shoulder holster.”

Bryne fell back against the bed. Santana looked around the ordered chaos of the hotel room. She motioned to the screens. “Did I interrupt anything?”

“Yeah, I think I saw a cat move two hours ago.”

Santana sat down on the opposite bed. “What kind?”

“Are there different types of cats?” Bryne seemed serious. She shrugged. “I’ve taken stills of anything that’s come up that even slightly resembles activity.” She handed a stack of pictures over to Santana. “There’s a camera stationed at both the front and sides. That stack of photos beside your right hand are traffic cams that are stationed at both the entrance and the exit of the warehouse compound.”

“Paulson emailed them to me.”

Bryne yawned. “You sure this is the right location?”

“Like I can’t say a 100% yes, but I’m pretty positive, and my gut’s not usually wrong.”

Santana started to unpack her bags, setting up even more equipment in the room. From her laptop she connected to Verizon’s server, and accessed the cell towers in the area. “Audio and visual,” she said, as sound filled the room.

“I fucking hate stake-outs,” Bryne grumped.

“Auf Deutsch,” Santana teased.

“Verdammt, ich hasse Absteckungen.” Bryne chewed on the end of her pen before she wrote something down. Santana looked over her shoulder to check what it was. She’d written down the time.

“Something happen?” she questioned.

“No. Just keeping a record. How was your abbreviated honeymoon?”

“No bikini that’s for sure. But it was nice. Quinn’s been really good about this whole thing, and when I get back, I’ll be sure to make it up to her big time.”

“She must have cut you off?”

Santana let her eyes flicker from one screen to the next. “No, we decided to take a break.”

“She cut you off.”

“No,” Santana said more firmly. “In the past, instead of fixing our problems, we tried to fuck them away, and it didn’t do us much good. I don’t want that. Quinn’s like the love of my life, and I want to make sure that we have a life together. We need to figure out a way to talk through our problems, instead of just letting them go unchecked.”

“And how much _talking_ did you do about this little field trip?” Bryne kept her eyes focused on the screens as she asked this question.

Santana wondered if she was being tested. “Just that I had to work.”

“Secrets don’t make lasting relationships.”

“Are you telling me that I should tell her everything?”

“No, because that goes in breach of your contract. I’m merely pointing out that this isn’t the kind of job that encourages lasting relationships. I mean for fuck’s sake you were worried about missing a honeymoon even though you _know_ what’s in that warehouse; you tracked it down after all.” Santana bit down on her bottom lip. “Why do you think I’m still single?”

A teasing look crossed her features. “Because you couldn’t get me to fall into bed with you?”

“Cute, kid. Cute. I’ve never seemed to have a problem with getting a girl to fall into bed with me.” She considered for a moment. “Except when said girl was busy chasing after a Hazel-eyed blonde.” Santana pointed a finger. “I never chased!”

“This job isn’t exactly conducive to having lasting relationships. At least my side of it.”

“But I’m not like you.” Santana finally said. “I just analyze the situation, I don’t…act. And I don’t have like this super mysterious side life.”

Bryne made a point to look at all of the equipment that was in the hotel room. “No? So you’re busy pushing papers around in an office right now?”

Santana gave a resentful nudge to the hard backed case that was in front of her, causing it to tilt over.

“No, but it’s not like I do this kind of thing every day, or even month. I mean I can count on both hands how many times I’ve actively been involved in the field. I couldn’t…I mean before Quinn, sure, but how could I not…it’s less about me now, and more about her. I couldn’t even imagine what she’d do if I didn’t…” Santana could just picture how Quinn’s face would disappear behind a hard mask as she was informed the news. Outside she’d be completely collected, but inside she’d be ripped up, and there’d be no one to hold her together. “I just don’t see how I could do this full time, now that I’m sharing my life with someone.”

“Ask your friend Puck to explain it; he understands.”

“What’s Puck got to do with anything?”

“He’s a soldier. He could find a dozen other jobs that offer the same pay; he’s got military training, and there’s jobs that ex-military get first crack at, and yet he stays in the military. Yeah, it’s the Air Force, but they still see combat; there’s always that chance he’ll get deployed. Yet he reenlists. Do you think that he doesn’t love Shelly?”

“I know he loves Shelly.”

“What about you and his other family?” Santana nodded. “He does what he does because he knows that there is a higher purpose that he’s been called to serve. He understands that; understands that by doing what he’s doing, he’s helping to give his wife, and whatever children they have, a better life. And you understand that, too, because you’re here right now, instead of on your honeymoon. That, or you like feeling like a badass.”

“I am a badass.”

“Okay, just remember that,” Bryne challenged. She threw a pillow at Santana. “Why don’t you get some sleep? Who knows when’s the next time you’ll get a chance?”

“Shouldn’t you be the one to sleep? How long have you been staring at that screen?”

“Don’t worry, I blinked about an hour ago.” She pointed to the other bed. Santana stripped and got beneath the covers. Travel fatigue took her over, and it wasn’t long before she was asleep.

* * *

Bright and early on Monday morning, just a few minutes past 8, a lean, tan, raven-haired beauty wearing cut-off jean shorts that were so short they barely covered her underwear, and a sleeveless jean top that was tied just above the bellybutton, and was unbuttoned enough on the top to show off her amble cleavage, sashayed into the small, cramped office of the warehouse compound, her hips swaying so hard she could have been on the deck of a ship instead of on solid ground.

“Excuso me, excuso me,” the woman said, counting on the man’s ignorance of Spanish to not realize that her Spanglish was completely made up. “Are chu the manager here?”

The man’s eyes roamed over the woman’s body, trying to work his way through her broken English.

“I am.”

“Ay dios!” she yelled, waving her arms around wildly. “Mi tonto como mierda boyfriend sent me out here in this damn heat, and I’m sweating so hard I’ve even got a pool under my boobs,” she thrust her chest out, “and I’m supposed to unload the truck in our warehouse, but the hijo de puta forgot to give me the keys, and I don’t know what to do. This heat’s has my hair going all over the place, and I’m muy tired, and already broke a nail.” She thrust the nail in front of the man’s face so he could see where her perfect manicure had broken off.

The man nodded, trying his best to keep up.

“So, he’s left me to unload de whole truck with just me and the dishwasher, and it’s a 45 minute drive all de way back to the restaurant, and I need to be back in time for the lunch shift, and ay dios, mami told me, she said ‘Rosie, never chu marry a gringo, but I didn’t listen, no I don’t know what to do,” she said with a huff, resting her elbow on the counter, burying her head in her hand. 

The manager shifted. “Erm…what’s your boyfriend’s name?” he questioned, pulling the ledger to him. The woman gave him a hopeful look. “Charlie Frinks.”

“Charlie?”

“Frinks. Si. He tinks I’m gonna be the third Mrs. Frinks, but I can’t get with no man of no action. You know what I’m a saying?”

The man nodded rapidly.

“Chu aren’t a man of no action, are you?”

“No, no. I can let you borrow my key, but you have to return it as soon as you’re done.”

The woman kissed him flat on his fleshly lips. “Gracias, gracias!” She jumped up and down in her excitement, her breasts bouncing, nearly coming out of her top. “Chu are my new hero! I’ll bring de key right back. Rapido, no?”

“Rapido,” the man repeated.

She grinned, and blew him a kiss before sashaying out of the small office.

Santana kept her face composed until she was back in the black Mercedes sprinter van. “How’d it go?” Bryne questioned with a smile.

“Next time, just break the damn lock,” Santana said, handing over the key to warehouse # 9 for Bryne to make a copy of.

“Your country thanks you,’ Bryne joked. 

Rosario made three other appearances that morning. Santana was learning as she went along. When she wore dresses or other clothes that showed off her fantastic body, people noticed. They couldn’t take their eyes off of her. When she wore loose fitting jeans, a non-form fitting top, and sunglasses with her hair in a ponytail, and wore tennis shoes instead of two and three inch heels, she got substantially fewer looks. Also and sadly, she learned prejudices worked in her favor. She had discovered a long time ago that more people inquired into her business when she was wearing a business suit than when she wore polyester shirts with company logos on them.

Dressing like the help, like a worker, practically made her disappear. For this job she was dressed in a black and red polyester polo with the name “Speedy’s Delivery” written on it, the name Rosario stitched over the pocket, her pony tail pulled through the hole in the cap. She may as well have been one of the pictures on the wall for the amount of acknowledgement that she got. No one noticed her. No one noticed when she walked down the main corridor to the upper level offices, or when she slipped into the janitor’s office, closing the door behind her. She slid out her tablet from the delivery bag, and went to work.

“Now let’s just hope that idiot opened that email,” she whispered. 

It only took a minute to find out that the answer was yes. Santana rolled her eyes at the fact that the floor manager had seriously ceded access to his company’s entire network, solely because he opened an email attachment about kittens. His lapse in security meant that Santana’s job had been made that much easier. Piggy backing on the email file that was sent was a downloadable file that allowed Santana to now have access to the floor manager’s work computer and screen. He hadn’t even locked the screen before he had gone to lunch. It was an added bonus that would save her time having to run a code breaker program, though she was beginning to think that this was the kind of guy whose password was the name of his cat. If he was Santana’s employee, she would be handing him his ass right about now.

The screen on her tablet split into two, as she shifted through the database. It took her 20 minutes to gain access to the Wi-Fi system that the warehouse was hooked up to, and after doing a temporary black out of Vision Cable Company’s server for 30 seconds, she was able to slip out of the closet unnoticed, fading easily back into the background.

* * *

“Honey, I’m home!” Santana called out as she sauntered into warehouse # 9. Santana made her way over to the corner of the warehouse that Bryne had staked for their purposes. Mr. Frinks hadn’t frequented his warehouse space in months, they weren’t worried he’d make a sudden reappearance. “Anything interesting happen while I was away?”

“Do you mind not making so much noise?” Bryne chastised. “And no. How’d hunting go?”

Santana whipped her tablet out, typed a few things, opened an app, and then they were looking at the inside of the other warehouse through its security feed. “You were right. The manager’s a kitten man.”

Bryne rolled her eyes. “You ever think about the utter lack of security by the people who are supposed to be guarding your information?”

“I have Comcast,” Santana joked. “I’m sure we could gain access to the cameras itself, but that really wouldn’t do anything for us, because assuming that this is being broadcast, there’d be no way to hide the scrolling screen, and these cameras don’t scroll automatically. So far as I’ve been able to tell, every last one of them is trained on the doors, and none of them on the interior.”

“So we don’t have eyes inside, but it’s good that they’re all dedicated to the exits. As long as I don’t use the doors, I can slip in undetected and there’d be no record of me coming or going. But just because this is the feed that we’re getting, doesn’t mean that there isn’t a separate security system that’s either not hooked up to the Wi-Fi or utilizes a separate service provider to broadcast. It also doesn’t show if there’s motion sensors either,” Bryne noted. “But this is good work, Santana.”

“I’m not done yet,” Santana beamed. She brought up another screen. “So, I was thinking on the way over, even if we do confirm that this warehouse contains what we think it does, we still don’t know who, which is why we’re sitting, right?” She went on without waiting for an affirmative from Bryne. “So it would help if we knew who was moving said equipment, right?”

“Yea,” Bryne said in a ‘duh’ voice.

“I mean without actually coming across them first.”

“That would be ideal.”

“What if we do a reverse IP look up?”

“How do we do that without being inside and gaining access to their computer?”

“Have you ever heard the expression you’re too smart for your own good’?”

“Yes.” Bryne nodded, urging her to get on with it.

“Well, okay so very complex systems expect to get hacked by other very complex systems, and if they’re worth the thousands or even millions of dollars it takes to run them, they are protected against very intricate schemes. Sometimes they forget, however, to guard against very low level attacks, like, for instance, a free website that is typically loaded with a virus or two just to make you pay for going on a free site. It’s like getting sucker punched by the smallest guy in the class.

“When you run a program called the speed test, it tells you why your connection has the speed that it has, including the unknowns that make it not perform at perhaps its best, which includes other servers interfering with it, background programs, etc, etc. So being that it’s not an intrusive procedure, most software simply over looks it, and-,” Santana pointed triumphantly as three IP addresses came up. “Forget to guard against it.”

Santana pulled up google maps and all info and ran the three addresses. One pinged at an internet coffee shop in Manhattan. The other two were far more complex.

She wrote down the excess information.

“Impressive, Santana.”

“I know. I’ve even managed to impress myself with this one. It makes it look like I actually have tech skills when we both know I don’t. So get tech girl to run that IP address, and then, if we’re lucky and they’re stupid, we’ll have some information on our guys.”

“What about the Manhattan address?”

“It’s probably attached to a ghost rider which pings random IP addresses based on an algorithm. But, like all algorithms it operates on a pattern, and you can use contextual glues to slowly build a diagram to figure out where the signal originates from. Well, I can’t, but I know it can be done. I listened to Jenna explain it once, but me and tech,” Santana waved a hand over her head. “I can just do the basics.” She rethought that. “For us, anyway.”

“Not on nerd level, but not on normal level either.”

“Exactly. That’s why we have tech guys.”

Santana took off her book bag, and pulled out the blue prints that she got from City Hall. She spread the roll out on the table. “I come baring more gifts. I managed to secure the building plan for the warehouse, here is a schematic of the city sewer system beneath the compound, this is a schematic of the electrical system, and this one’s plumbing. I was told that it would take two weeks to get these.”

“You sound proud of yourself.”

“I am.”

“I feel like I should be giving you a cookie,” Bryne remarked. Her eyes flicking back to the screens that she never spent too much time looking away from. She wrote down the time again.

“Save your accolades, I like bling. Oh, and one last thing. I did some snooping around at a few truck stops, and found out that someone ordered a private fleet of six trucks, but without drivers.”

“So, that’s a team of at least 7, I would say one guard per two trucks, and if it were me, I’d load two trucks, give it an hour or two head start, than load two more, and so on.”

“ _You_ wouldn’t two do in one day.”

“For what’s in there, I would. No matter how they disbursed the system, if it’s not the whole thing, it’s worthless, so I’d want to keep the trip as together and concise as possible. Why don’t you get some rest, and I’ll wake you in about four hours?”

Santana felt like she was being told to take a nap, which essentially she was. It was still early in the afternoon, but Santana had done nothing but cat nap the day before, as had Bryne, and maybe she could use the rejuvenation to her system. She found the softest looking spot on the floor, and tried to make herself comfortable enough to go to sleep. There was a couch in the office of the warehouse, but Bryne had vetoed the idea of using it because they were supposed to stay as confined to the area as possible, and because she felt like it was too far from the warehouse door.

Bryne woke her in four hours, as promised, and after leaving Santana specific directions, spread out on the floor. Bryne was out like a light in a matter of seconds. It was a bit disconcerting; especially the way Bryne slept. She didn’t do anything as freaky as sleeping with her eyes open, but she lay flat on her back, hands crossed over her abdomen, feet stretched out. She looked like a corpse in a coffin, and she moved about as much as well. Her breathing got shallow, but her features never relaxed. Santana wondered if that was a normal thing, like was she that way when she was asleep in her bed, too, or if it was just because they were on a recovery mission.

Santana couldn’t sleep on her back. The only time that she did was when Quinn was curled up on top of her.

Once Santana started thinking about Quinn, she couldn’t stop the thoughts that were flooding her mind. She missed her wife. It had only been a few days, but falling asleep without having Quinn beside her reminded her too sharply of those two horrible days when she’d had to go to sleep without her being in the bed with her, without hearing her tell her good-night, without having talked to her all day. Santana berated herself for the feelings that she was doing something wrong, because even with a normal job, her normal job in fact, people traveled for work all the time. When Quinn got higher up in her company, she’d probably be traveling, too. Santana reasoned that she just didn’t like being away because they’d just gotten married, not because she had to constantly be in the presence of Quinn.

When Bryne woke, the sudden noise startled Santana out of the stupor that she had been falling into.

“Anything happen while I was gone?” Bryne questioned.

Santana shook her head. “I think I saw your cat.”

Bryne shook her head. “You fell asleep, didn’t you?”

“I wasn’t asleep.”

“No…you just weren’t here. Are you awake now?”

“Wide awake.”

“Good. Time for recon.”

“Now? It’s,” Santana checked the time. “Christ, it’s 4:00 in the morning.”

“Yea, and as you demonstrated, it’s that time when people’s minds start to lull, and it’s still dark out.”

Santana fixed her face into serious lines. “On your command.”

“You know the drill. You stay here, you are my eyes. Quick in and out.”

“Aye aye,” Santana said sarcastically. She quickly got in a more serious mood, though, as they both did a quick check of equipment and supplies. They reaffirmed that they were on the same channel, and that Santana’s audio and visual was working the way that it should.

“If something happens?”

“I call for back up.”

“That’s right, you call, you don’t move your ass from that chair, do you understand me, Lopez?”

“Yeah, I got it.”

Without another word, Bryne slipped from the building, surprisingly not making a sound as she exited. When she was alone, Santana let out a tense breath, feeling the adrenaline rush through her; same feeling she used to get ride before a competition. She tracked Bryne’s movements via the screen, a call to command already dialed up and just waiting for her to push the button.

“How’s it looking?”

Bryne’s whispered voice nearly startled her, but she quickly settled back down. This was just like a cheer competition. “You’re looking good. It’s quiet.”

While keeping an eye on the various screens, Santana watched Bryne’s progression through the camera she was wearing. Bryne slipped into the sewer system via a drain. Once it was discovered that there was a grate that connected to the system, it was decided that this was going to be Bryne’s in, that way she avoided the front, back, and side entrances…and the cameras that were stationed at them. As an added precaution, the had also recorded two hours of the feed from the cameras, and were broadcasting that recording instead of a live feed so that Bryne could actually stand right in front of the cameras and not be seen. 

“Inside,” Bryne updated her, though she could see that.

Santana oriented herself to the building. “Do you see that about 30 yards in front of you at 09:00?”

“Yeah. They’re definitely getting ready to ship. I’m checking them out now.”

Movement out of the corner of her eye caught Santana’s attention. “B? I just saw two black Lincoln Town cars turn into the compound. If they’re heading towards you ETA at two and a half minutes.” Santana glanced at Bryne’s screen. Santana squinted trying to make out the image being presented to her. “What’re you doing?”

“Trying to see into the crates.”

“Well hurry up. Confirmed they are heading your way. 2 minutes.”

“What is that?”

“B, come on! 90 seconds.”

Santana could see Bryne shift, trying to get a better angle maybe. “I just have to check the other crates.”

“No time. You’ve got about 60 seconds before you have company.”

Bryne dropped down to her belly, slithering like a snake to the next crate. “30 seconds, B, you should be out of there.”

“This is our package. Call it in.”

“15 seconds, B. Cars have parked.”

“Did you call it in?”

Santana briefly switched channels, and placed the call to command. “It’s called in. You better be out of there, now. There in the front, you can slip out the back, or back down the drain.”

“Do you recognize any of them?”

“Wo bist du?”

“I’m behind one of the crates,” she snapped. “Do you recognize them?”

Santana looked at the men that got out of the first Town Car. The driver stayed inside. She ran the facial recognition software. She now had an open link with command so that anything she saw they saw. The other town car carried two people, a man, a woman, and a driver. They could have been out for a nice evening, except it was 4:30 in the morning.

The men from the first car spanned out. “B, you have one sub at the front of the warehouse, two more fanning out to cover the rear entrance.”

“Santana?”

“Yes, go.”

“The woman is Cass Bremerton, she’s a known weapons trafficker. The one who hasn’t moved an inch from her side, he’s a ghost, a hired hand. The driver looks to be just a driver, the first one out of the car is a guy that goes by the nickname Vlad. He’s essentially a do-boy. Got a bit of a jacket on Interpol, though. That’s all I got for you. The others don’t ping. I’ll keep trying to find them.”

“Thanks. B, did you hear that?”

“Ja.”

“Six subs total, not counting the drivers. No…wait, the woman is getting back into the TC and they are driving away. 5 subs. The guy named Vlad, he’s walking with a slightly limp, favoring his right leg. He’ about 6’0, even. The ghost is maybe an inch shorter, 210, looks like.” She continued to feed Bryne information. Cass, got back into the Town Car, and it drove off.” She continued to relay the information. Bryne was no longer able to talk because all but one of the remaining guys had gone inside the warehouse.

“You no have two guys inside with you. No three, now.”

For a couple of tense minutes, maybe even an hour, it looked like it was just going to be a waiting game, but things escalated quickly. Santana wasn’t sure what happened, if Bryne’s hiding place was discovered, or if she had stepped out at the wrong moment and had been caught. But there was a moment when she got a very good look at one of the guys, then the camera screen went blank. Bryne was still talking, though, quickly.

Santana was on her feet in seconds, checking to make sure she had her guns with her before she exited the warehouse. It prickled her skin how amazingly calm Bryne was as she fed Santana information in German. How many captors she saw, her surroundings, what they were wearing. Then her voice suddenly cut out, and Santana was running faster. She climbed up the fire escape, instead of going through the sewers as Bryne had done, because that would put her beneath the subs. People had a tendency to look down, but not up, so she was going with the tactical position. Santana moved on pure adrenaline, her mind blank with the exception of keeping in mind the images that she had seen through Bryne’s eyes, and the blueprints for the warehouse.

She encountered no resistance getting to and around the building, or climbing up the fire escape. The escape, though, stopped about two feet short of the roof, so Santana had to stretch up as high as she could go, and jump, before pulling herself up by her fingertips. It took no effort to work the sky light open enough for her to slip her head and body inside; the problem was getting down from the skylight. There was a cat walk, about four feet down, almost directly beneath it. It was risky, and she didn’t want to try for it unless she was sure she wouldn’t make a sound when she fell. It took only a second for her to remind herself that it didn’t matter, that Bryne was in trouble. She lowered herself as far as she could go, adjusted her gravity, and was pleased that she ended up dropping almost cat like onto the catwalk. She raced to the edge, remembering to stay low.

When she got to the stairwell, she paused. She saw three subs, the same number that Bryne had said. She had predicted that there was going to be a team of at least 10, so whether this was merely the advance guard, or her predictions were off, or there were more people on the way, Santana couldn’t say, but she needed to get Bryne out of there now and the subs subdued so they couldn’t warn the remaining subs to her presence.

Santana made it down the steps as fast as she could without causing any unnecessary noise. When she got to the bottom of the stairwell, she almost ran into one of the guys, a fourth, standing there, his back facing away from her, but he was moving, so it wouldn’t be for long. She pulled out her gun, and very carefully hit him on the back of his neck. Catching him before he could fall to the ground. He was a lot heavier than Santana was expecting, but she thanked her cheerleading training for teaching her how to catch a falling body. She lowered him to the ground. Satisfied that he was actually knocked out, she cuffed him to the rail, sticking his sock in his mouth to keep him from yelling if he came to.

Just as she was congratulating herself, she heard a sound coming from the main part of the warehouse that sent her hair standing on end. It was the sound of something unyielding hitting flesh. She creeped around the corner, and saw to her great relief that Bryne was still alive. She was tied down to a chair, and a really mean looking dude had apparently just hit her with his pistol. Instead of outright killing her he seemed to be attempting to get information from Bryne. Good luck with that.

Somehow Bryne caught Santana’s eye. Santana raised her gun to eye level, but Bryne gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head. Santana nodded, but didn’t lower her gun, her finger itching when she saw the man raise his gun again to hit her with it. The movement was swift. Bryne had somehow wiggled part of her foot free, and the next time the guy got closer to her, she used her foot to push back against him, causing the chair to fall backwards. She rolled into the guy, taking his feet out from beneath him. The gun went clattering to the floor, accidentally discharging when it hit. A bullet ricocheted, hitting no one but the wall, something that oddly caused both Bryne and the sub to start screaming expletives at each other until Santana remembered what it was they were supposed to be recovering. 

At the sound of the gun going off, footsteps followed. One sub they didn’t plan for hit her like a freight train, knocking her to the ground, her gun falling from her hand. She saw the sub reaching for it, so she pushed it further out of reach. A hand came down against her neck. Santana’s fingers went straight for the air pipe, at the same time landing a punch square in the center of the man’s face. He groaned, but didn’t roll off of her.

_Stubborn, fucker_.

Remembering that the best way to get people to do what you wanted physically, was to do the opposite, Santana rolled into his grip. This set him off balance, giving her the upper hand. She got him into a side head lock, cutting off his blood supply until he blacked out. Santana took a few necessary seconds to make sure he was disarmed, and to encase his hands in a pair of plastic cuffs before she moved to retrieve her discarded gun.

Santana had just a hair’s warning, a chance glance out of the side of her eye. She spun and squeezed without really thinking about it. _“That’s odd,_ ” she thought, _“the sound came before I pulled the trigger._ ”

Santana’s shot hit the guy on the leg where she’d been aiming, and the guy doubled over. Moving quicker than Santana had, Bryne kicked away the weapon, and hit his wound with her elbow.

“Aww…” he grunted. She hit him with the broad side of her gun, before kicking him between the legs. He dropped like a sack of potatoes. 

Bryne shouted something, but Santana didn’t quite catch it. She still heard the remaining action around her but she couldn’t focus. She looked down in shock at the blood on her shirt. _Oh, Quinn._ She thought as she recognized that the blood covering her was her own. She saw hazel eyes floating in front of her. Her eyes narrowed in disbelief. _I was shot._


	33. Something I need to Tell You

Quinn's lips still tingled even after Santana stepped away. It took everything that she had in her, years of Fabray training and practice with not letting emotions come through, to actually watch Santana walk away from her. Quinn had never considered herself to be one of those girls that'd been hit with the Bella Swan syndrome; she'd never been one of those sappy, overly dramatic girls who practically had to breathe in their partner because their whole lives were tied up with their mate. She wasn't one of those people that thought the world had ended because they were apart.

But while watching the distance grow between them, the only thing that she could think about was all the things that you didn't say to someone because you thought that you would have a lifetime to say them. Things like, she liked Mondays better than Fridays because she liked coming home to Santana being there, as opposed to the days when she got off of work first, and came home to an empty apartment. Things like she absolutely hated waking up early on Saturday morning, but loved the fact that Santana insisted on cooking breakfast for her. Things like, she thought it was indescribably cute that Santana danced when she cleaned, and sometimes purposely left scuff marks or soap stains in the shower if she knew it was Santana's turn to clean, just so she could sneak up on her, and watch her ass move to whatever beat was playing on her iPod.

She could handle being away from her wife; she had done so often over the years, so it wasn't that Santana was leaving for three weeks that made Quinn anxious; it was that haunting premonition that she wasn't going to come back. Good things never stayed good for very long in Quinn's life. She had learned a long time ago that if it was good, that meant something was probably going to come along fairly soon to mess things up. Despite how she came across, she hadn't been surprised when Santana told her that she didn't have her phone on her, because she had watched Santana carefully leave it in their bedroom. She knew, too, that Santana had taken her gun with her, because the gun she had left her with was a beginner's gun, which meant it wasn't Santana's. No gun and no cell phone meant that this wasn't an average business trip.

And then there was Quinn's own gut feeling about _Bones_. Not a feeling in her bones, but the show _Bones._ Particularly the episode that Santana had turned off. Quinn had the unsettling feeling that if it had been any other episode of the show, her wife wouldn't have even bothered to turn the TV off, so she wondered what it was about that episode that Santana didn't want her to see? Was it one of the ones where Sealy got shot?

Although she fully planned on going private eye on Santana's apartment while she as gone, the idea of going back home after Santana left was so very unappealing, so she called Mercedes up, thankful that her friend wasn't the type to lay in the bed all day. She went over to her friend's townhome with a pint of skim milk, and half a dozen donuts fresh from the bakery. Mercedes looked grumpy, she was still in her night clothes, and her hair was still wrapped, but she opened the door, and invited Quinn inside. She may get _up_ early, but it took her hours to get ready for the day on the weekends. "What's the matter?" she questioned.

"Santana left for work today," Quinn said. "She won't be back until the end of September."

Mercedes evaluated her best girl's pout. "Aw…come here, girl," Mercedes cooed, offering her arms to Quinn. "It's only for a little while."

Quinn sniffed. "What if she doesn't come back?" It felt weird, admitting her feelings out in the open like that, but she and Mercedes always had a brutal honesty with each other. Quinn had always seemed to open up to this woman when she couldn't seem to open up to anyone else.

"Of course she's coming back. Why wouldn't she?"

Quinn pulled back to give Mercedes a look. "Oh that. Well, let's not stay stood in the doorway."

"Do you have Netflix," Quinn sniffled.

Mercedes seemed a little taken aback. "Uh…yeah. Movie marathon?"

"Can we?"

Mercedes nodded. They got through a whole movie in near silence before Quinn asked for the remote. She typed in _Bones_ and was hit with a series of titles. It took until the fifth season for Quinn to find the one that she was looking for, all the while Mercedes gave her a sideways look.

"How's Young?" Quinn questioned, just to get her friend's eyes off of her. It worked, because suddenly Mercedes was no longer looking at her, but at the floor. Quinn noticed, and after hitting play, she turned to look at Mercedes.

"We decided to take a break," Mercedes finally said. She looked embarrassed and frustrated. "Sam and I…we kind of did a you and Santana after the reception, and I realized that I still sort of have a lot of feelings for Sam, you know? And if I feel that way, it's really not fair to Young to string him along when I still have feelings for someone else."

"But Young is such a gentleman. And he was _so_ sweet! I thought he was perfect for you, 'Mercy."

"Me, too. And if he really is the match that God has for me then we'll find our way back to each other. Besides…do you think Mercedes Young sounds right?"

"Over Mercedes Evans you mean?"

Mercedes cheeks glowed. "Sam and I aren't…" she faltered, "it just doesn't work with us."

"It didn't work with me and Santana either," Quinn said, softly. Her words returned her to her worries, and her worries brought her back to the screen. She pressed play.

"Santana and I are both dying to know, what's his first name?"

Mercedes chuckled softly. "You know I only got around to finding that out about a week before the wedding. It's Anthony, girl."

"Anthony Young…is he related to Vince?"

"I never asked," Mercedes said sarcastically. "I'll get on that."

Quinn's eyes fell to Cam carrying a pregnancy stick around the office. "Maybe Santana's pregnant?"

Mercedes eyes narrowed. "What?"

"Nothing, ignore me."

Mercedes frowned beside her. Quinn went back to watching the episode. She didn't have long to wait before it struck her what had set off silent alarm bells with Santana. She had seen this episode before; at one time or another she had watched just about every episode of _Bones_. This episode wasn't one where Booth got shot, it was the one where government agents took over the lab and they had to figure out the cause of death of a corpse who could have been one of the presidents. Quinn kind of gasped.

Mercedes looked up as if she was being pulled out of a deep thought. "What's wrong?"

She shook her head. "Nothing," she said quickly. Mercedes didn't look like she believed her.

"People don't usually gasp over nothing," she pointed out.

Quinn gave a false smile. "Really, it's nothing," Quinn insisted unconvincingly, but Mercedes seemed to be in her own world, which left Quinn alone to be in hers. And her world seemed to be getting smaller and smaller as the realization fell on her, the reason she was suspicious of Santana turning off this episode. The federal agency that had taken over the Jefferson had claimed to be the General Services Administration. The one her wife claimed to work for. Obviously that seemed to be a half-truth, or a downright lie on the show, but if that were the case then why shut the episode off? Quinn knew that television and real life weren't the same thing. The only conclusion she could come up with, was that the real life GSA might do something other than selling paper.

Quinn had looked, at both their bank statement and the GSA website. She had read through the services they provided. She had no doubt that Santana worked for them, or that they offered the services that they said. But after seeing the take-over on the television show, a nagging voice started protesting. Oddly, the voice that was suddenly ringing in Quinn's ear wasn't Booth's, or Brennan's, or Santana's, but her Accounting 101 teacher back in her freshman year, as he talked about the basics of accounting. _"Accountants like every number, every dollar, accounted for. One cheat that business, and Politicians, do all the time, however, is when there's a line item that you don't know where it belongs, but you still need somewhere to put it, it gets filed away as 'general services'._

Those words repeated over and over in her head, until they became interspersed with a conversation that she and Santana once had. _"What's your definition of a spy?"_

_Quinn's face wrinkled as she thought about it. "Someone who works for a secret government agency, who is trained to be able to kill someone with their thumb, and goes around protecting the union from foreign and domestic terrorists."_

_"You watch too many movies," Santana chided… Yes, I have a top secret security clearance, and yes I work for a government agency, but not a top secret one…by your definition, I am not a spy._

_Her, Quinn's,_ definition. She never asked her wife what Santana's definition of a spy was.

* * *

Quinn woke up sweating and gasping for air, tightly clutching Santana's pillow to her. Her eyes sought out a piece of familiarity, landing on the alarm clock that sat by her side table. From its glow she could see the gun that Santana had left with her in front of a picture that had just been added to the night stand. She stared at the photo of her and Santana at Martha's Vineyard, and she fought back the wave of loneliness that had taken a sudden hold of her. Quinn had barely talked to Santana since they said good-bye at the airport, and it made Quinn anxious. She knew Santana wasn't doing some office job, and had been doing her very best not to think about it, but she just had a dream…and she really, _really_ just needed to hear Santana's voice right now.

Quinn's hands tangled in the bed sheets, gripping them in frustration at the absence of a body that was supposed to be in the bed beside her. Quinn reached for her phone, dialing Santana's number from memory, praying that Santana would pick up her phone. When her wife's phone started ringing on the table beside her, she accepted that Santana really wasn't going to pick up, and she had to go another night without talking to her.

She let the phone ring to voicemail and listened to Santana's message. " _You've reached Santana Fabray-Lopez's voicemail. If you're listening to this sexy voice right now that means I didn't get to the phone in time to answer. If you're not as sexy as this voice, I'm unlikely to call you back, but if you are, I'll be sure to get back to you as soon as I can. Ha, ha. I'm just kidding, babe. You know I'm only yours. Stop listening to me, and leave your message now."_

Quinn gave a sad chuckle as she listened to the message, knowing that Santana had changed it recently because she normally sounded far more professional. She was tempted to call back, just to listen to it again, but she hung up her phone without leaving a message. Just as she was sitting her phone down she saw that she had an unlistened to voicemail, which was odd because she didn't remember her phone ringing. She connected to her mailbox.

_"Quinn? Hey, babe, it's me. Your wife. It's too early in the morning for you to be up and worrying so much. Go back to sleep, baby. I'm fine, and you need your beauty sleep. Whatever you saw, it's just a dream. I'm okay, and I'll be back home soon. I promise."_

Quinn was just about to hit repeat, when she heard the second voicemail. " _Hey, Babe, it's me again. Your beautiful, lovely, and sexy as hell wife. I just realized that I didn't tell you that I loved you on that last message so I just wanted to call back to say that in case you still didn't know. I love you. Today, tomorrow, and forever. So, there, I said it. Please go to bed now. Love you baby, and nighty-night….yes, I really did say nighty night, so sleep!"_

"Night," Quinn whispered, even though Santana wasn't there to hear it. Santana knew her, she reminded herself. And she knew Santana. Santana made a promise to her, so that meant that everything was alright. She burrowed into Santana's pillow, allowing her smell to engulf her. She held on to that, and tried not to think about anything else. Santana made a promise and she never broke her promises.

* * *

Once the adrenaline wore off, the pain hit her like a freight truck. "He shot me!" she gasped. "Like he actually fucking shot me! I'm wearing a bullet proof vest, and he shot me in my arm! Like what the hell? Why don't they make bullet proof _shirts_?"

"Are you done rambling?"

"I just can't believe he shot me!"

"If you don't chill, _I'll_ shoot you. I've had worse than a shot in the arm before. And you're bleeding, S, put some pressure on the wound. Are you new?"

With the subs being properly detained by the back-up unit, Bryne moved to address Santana's wound. She examined the area, and smiled. "Ah, you caught your first bullet. I feel like I should take a picture or something. Or like hit you for not following orders."

"What I was supposed to do, just sit there and twiddle my thumbs while god knows what happened?"

"Yes," Bryne said firmly, but her eyes said 'Thank you'. "That way, paperwork doesn't have to be done on dumb ass analysts that aren't supposed to be getting shot."

"Then _why_ was I issued a gun," Santana said smartly. Underneath, however, she was still kind of shaky. The adrenaline rush was amazing, but now that it was over, she only saw the ways that she, Bryne, or both could have ended up dead.

Bryne produced a first aid kit from a hidden pocket. She pulled a set of latex gloves on, and before Santana could make a joke about it, her fingers were prodding the wound. "Oh, shit that fucking burns," Santana hissed. "How bad is it?"

"You'll live," Bryne said dryly.

"Is the bullet still in there?"

"No, it just got flesh. A good chunk too, but you lucked out. The bullet didn't really enter, just kind of skimmed by. You've got some sort of guardian angel up there."

"It hurts this much and it's only a flesh wound? I thought like flesh wounds weren't supposed to hurt? Like you could get shot, and just keep rolling."

Bryne gave her a look. "There's no such thing as a flesh wound. That's on TV. You've got nerves and pain sensors everywhere. Give me your hand."

Santana did as she was told. Brnye pushed her left hand up against the wound. "Keep pressure on it. And take shallower breaths. I don't want you passing out on me. Oh, shit! What's that on the wall beside you?"

Santana's head turned. "What's wh-," Santana stopped mid-sentence because Bryne had jammed a needle in her arm, an inch above where her hand was.

"The fuck?" Santana yelled, trying to pull away.

"You looked like a screamer," Bryne said casually. She spread out materials on the table between them, and even now Bryne kept an eye on the screens. Cass, and her drivers should be returning, and she didn't want to miss it when they did. In fact, if Santana wasn't busy bleeding all over the place, she'd still be over there.

"Shouldn't we be going to a hospital?"

Bryne gave her the most 'are you a moron' look imaginable. She looked like she wanted to knock her on the head 'could've had a V-8' style. "What the hell do you think that we've been doing for the past couple of days?" she questioned. "Playing cricket? All gunshot wounds have to be reported to the authorities. It is generally _not_ a good idea to leave a record of your existence floating around when you're supposed to be a ghost. Now be quiet; I have to concentrate. Oh, and hold on to this."

Bryne slid a piece of metal piping into Santana's hand. "What's this for?" Santana didn't have to wait for an answer. She felt a sharp prick going into her arm; Bryne was stitching her up. And although the wound itself was numb, watching Bryne work made Santana nauseous. If she threw up, she'd never be able to live that down.

When Bryne was finished, she handed Santana a satellite phone. "What's this for?"

"Call your wife," Bryne commanded.

Santana nodded, and did as she was told.

* * *

Santana and Bryne were at the mall in El Paso after overseeing the shipment of the warehouse's contents to White Sands where it would stay under guard until the recovery team picked it up and sent it who knows where. Bryne, whose hair was now tucked beneath a realistic purple and orange wig, and was looking every bit the battered wife as she sported a deep purple bruise over her left eye and cheek from where the gun came in contact with it, was busy enjoying an ice cream cone, as if she didn't have a care in the world. "I'm just saying, I think it's a bad idea."

"I just got shot in the arm. If I want to cut my hair, I'm going to cut my hair!"

Bryne grimaced. "Okay, but the wife's not going to like it."

"Not really her choice."

Bryne snorted. "Keep telling yourself that."

"Okay, so how is it that you get to have your hair purple and orange, but I can't cut mine?"

"This color will fade out by the time I have to go back to work, and I'm not going back home to someone."

Santana studied the wig and Bryne's eyebrows.

"What color is your hair naturally?"

"I was born bald."

Santana steered them over to the salon. Bryne just followed, eager smile on her face.

"It's not like I'm getting a tattoo or anything."

Bryne held up her hands, one of which still had the ice cream in it. "Hey, it's your funeral. Seems a shame to survive a duel, just to get killed by the misses but that's just me."

"If I didn't have to worry about apprehension, it wouldn't have been nearly so close."

"Be glad that command wanted them to be apprehended; it's not easy to kill someone."

There weren't a lot of people in front of her, so they didn't have long to wait. "So what do you want today?" the stylist questioned.

An hour and a half later, Santana stood in front of the mirror, staring at herself. "Well?"

Santana took a while to orient her face to this new change. She had never had short hair before. Although her ass and chest came first and second, her hair was like her next best feature. All of her past girlfriends, hook-ups, partners, etc. had run their fingers through it, luxuriating in it. It was so short now that it didn't even come down to her shoulders. She couldn't put it in a high pony any more, and even though it was 11 years since high school, Santana was certain that Sue Sylvester had just been alerted to the fact that one of her former head Cheerios had cut her hair.

Santana turned pleading eyes on Bryne. "What do _you_ think?"

It kind of looked like Jennifer Lawrence's 2014 hair cut in the front, with in the classic 'Rachel' cut in the back. All she needed was a wife beater and a large pair of hoop earrings and she would look like a hipper, sexier version of Alex Nunez from Degrassi.

"If you were going to go short you could have at least gone with a more lesbian haircut." Santana glowered at Bryne. "Just saying. But I like it."

"Do you?"

"I think it kind of suits you," Bryne assured her.

Santana tugged on her shortened locks. "Quinn's going to kill me."

* * *

Santana allowed herself a day off before she got started on the paperwork to turn into her case handler, and before she had to completely slip into the Corporate America role so she could do her work for Little, Brown. The book, which had a release date for October 1st, had a huge production budget for a children's book because it was written by a Hollywood stud/adoptive father, and people contended that it was going to be the next _big_ thing. Santana wasn't so sure how true that was, but she had no problem marketing it as such. She spent the next week and a half in Arizona, in New Mexico, in Oklahoma, and Texas, conducting polls, setting up promotional displays, and her favorite, reading the new book to the kids at the local Children's hospitals. It was something she had started doing on her own, and still continued because it made good press for her company.

The day before Phil's first day of school, she went back and forth about flying back to Boston, just to walk him into his first class. She kept trying to convince herself that because Arizona was three hours behind Boston, that even though she had engagements from the very beginning of the work day, that she had time to do it. (She didn't). In the end, she had to settle for a phone call, instead of a flight.

An almost tearful smile spread across her face when Hazel put Phil on the phone. Phil didn't disappoint her with his enthusiasm. "Mama!"

"How's my little man?"

"I'm not little!" he protested. "I'm big!"

"Oh, I'm so sorry, mijo? How's my _big_ man?"

"I did the dishes today all by myself! Well mommy washed the pans, but I did the silverware and the plates. And I start big people school tomorrow!"

"Do you really?"

"Yes…really, and guess what, mama."

"Que mijo?"

"I'm a Ninja Turtle!"

"Oh no, how'd that happen? Did you eat something radioactive while I was away?"

"No! But I've got new jeans, and a Ninja Turtle t-shirt, and new Ninja Turtle shoes!"

"Whoa, that's a lot of Ninja Turtles!"

"Yeah, and I even got a Ninja Turtle folder!"

"Which turtle are you?"

"Michelangelo," he said without any hesitation.

"You sure? What about Leonardo?" she tried, foolishly being optimistic only to have him quickly crush her hopes.

"Leo? Mom, no one likes Leo! Everyone _knows_ he's _boring_."

 _Ay dios_ , Santana thought, rubbing her eyes. She had this sudden premonition, 11 years down the road, of a teenage Phillip sneaking out, partying, chasing after girls; Santana incarnate when she was in high school. As soon as she got off the phone, she was going to call her mom and apologize. That and say about 10 Hail Mary's. But there was no way her non-biological child would end up just like her, right? Gloria seemed like the quiet, studious type, so surely Phil would grow to be the same, right? She made another mental note to find out what kind of kid Gloria had been in high school.

"In the mix of all that Turtle stuff, did you get the book that I sent you?"

"Yes!" he said, eagerly. "Can I read it to you?"

"Sure. When it's time for bed, you can read it to me. Are you excited about starting school?"

She could practically hear him bouncing on the bed. "Super excited! We went to check my name on the door, and guess what, guess what?"

"Ooh what?"

"My teacher's name is Ms. Phillips, just like me!"

"Wow. Maybe you two can start a club."

"That would be cool!"

"Do you remember the four things I told you to remember?"

"Do my best, no matter who's watching. Be respectful and kind, and try to make friends. Don't ever let anyone make me feel bad about myself, and don't be afraid to be smarter and more talented than other people because I'm a Lopez, so I most likely already am anyway."

Santana chuckled to herself. "That's right, mijo!"

He gave a contented sigh. "Tomorrow's going to be _great!_ I really wish that you could be there with me and mommy to walk me into my classroom."

"Me, too, mijo. I know I won't be able to be there for your first day, but once I get back I'll walk you to class, okay?"

He had to think about it. "When do you come back from fighting crime?"

"Is that what mommy told you I was doing?"

"No, but you're a superhero, and that's what superhero's do, right? They fight crime."

Santana gave a soft chuckle. "Yes, that's what superhero's do. I will be back four days after your birthday."

"You're going to miss my birthday?"

"I'm sorry, mijo, but I'll be back for your birthday party. Quinn and I are throwing you a very special birthday bash, remember?"

Phil didn't seem mollified and he took a minute to think about it. "Okay…"

"Mijo, don't be upset. Your birthday's during the week, so we wouldn't be able to do anything anyway because you have to get up bright and early the next day for school, and me and mommy both have to work. And I'll call you first thing in the morning to sing you happy birthday."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Do you promise?"

"Prometo. I promise."

"Okay. Are you bringing me back anything cool from your crime fighting?"

The little con artist. Santana smiled, and shook her head. "What would you like me to bring you back?" She had a fairly good idea she already knew what he'd want.

"A Michelangelo action figure!"

"Mijo, I am in Arizona. That's a completely different state from the one we live in, in a different region from everything that you are used to. I'm in the desert; in a different cultural background, one your mami shares. Don't you want something that you can't buy in a Target in any city anywhere in the country?"

Phil made his thinking sound. "No. I want a turtle! Ooh, and the party bus too, please? I'll be really, really good at school if you get it!"

"I'll think about it."

She wondered if Hazel would kill her if she ended up bringing back an actual turtle. She could do it, and if Hazel didn't want the thing at her place, she could always keep it at Quinn's. She didn't entertain the thought for very long. Although the thought of the look on Phil's face when he saw it was thoroughly tempting, Santana knew she'd end up taking care of it, and she didn't want any pets at the moment.

"Let me talk to mommy for a second, and while I'm doing that, how about you get ready for bed so that you can read to me, okay?"

"Okay. Mommy!"

Santana pulled the phone away to save her ears. She could tell immediately when Hazel took the phone from Phil. "Hey."

"Hi, how's Arizona?" Hazel's voice sounded off. Santana noticed when she first called, but it seemed more pronounced now. There was something going on with her.

"Good," Santana answered. She didn't elaborate. "How are you doing, Hazel? Is everything okay?"

"I'm taking my son to his first ever day of 'big boy' school," she joked. "Of course I'm okay?"

"Yes, but how are _you_?"

"Honestly, I'm good, Santana; thank you for your concern."

"Let me know if you need anything, okay? And that means if you want to talk or anything like that."

"I will," Hazel responded, and Santana had absolutely no confidence that she was taking her words to heart. "Hey, Santana?"

"Yep?"

"I…just wanted to say that…I owe you a lot, and I don't know if I ever really thanked you properly. You're a good friend, and you're going to make a great mom."

"Er...thanks," Santana said, not really sure what to do with that statement.

"Here's Phil back for you. Bye."

"Night, Haze."

"Mama?"

Santana brushed the strangeness of the conversation aside, and smiled. "Si, mijo?"

"Are you ready?"

"Did you brush your teeth?"

"Yep."

"Did you kiss mommy goodnight, and tell her you love her more than anything else in the world?"

"One second!"

Phil rushed off, and was back a minute later. "Ready?"

"Are you in your jammies?"

"Yep! Are you in _your_ jammies?"

Santana looked over her clothing. "Yep."

"Okay, close your eyes." He waited an appropriate amount of time. "Are they closed?"

"Si," Santana fibbed.

"Okay, _Mr. Frog & Mr. Toad_."

Santana listened to him read, remembering how it wasn't too long ago that he was small enough to sleep on her chest, and now he was starting kindergarten, and was big enough to read to her. He wasn't a baby anymore. He was even losing that baby voice.

Phil actually managed to get all the way to the end of the book, but he hit the last page, and the next thing Santana heard was snoring. "Phil? Mijo? Night, mijo."

Santana kissed the phone, before she disconnected the call.

She undressed, got comfortable in her bed, and pulled her laptop to her. She called Quinn on Skype, smiling widely at the sight of her face picking up almost immediately. Santana smiled just as widely.

"Hey, baby."

"What's wrong, San?" Quinn questioned immediately.

Santana shook her head. "Phil starts his first day of school tomorrow, and I've just been kind of thinking about it. What if he gets scared? What if he doesn't make any friends, what if one of the kids tries to pick on him? He's probably going to be the smallest one there; he's the youngest in his grade."

Quinn snickered.

Santana frowned. "Why are you laughing?"

"You just sound so much like a mom right now. It's cute."

"I am _not_ cute!"

"You are totally cute. And I think it's funny that you're really worried about anyone picking on _him._ I bet tomorrow he finds the biggest kid on the playground, instigates a fight, and afterwards kisses the prettiest girl around, and tells her that what he did was all for her."

Santana wondered if she should call Phil back to offer that sage advice.

"Nah, he still thinks kisses are icky."

"We'll see how long that lasts," Quinn teased. "He'll be fine, Santana."

Santana fidgeted on the bed. She adjusted the laptop. "Phil likes Michelangelo the best, you know the orange Ninja Turtle, and I was thinking. Do you think _our_ children are going to be little hellions?"

Quinn gave a full out laugh. "Santana have you met _us_? Anything related to us is going to be a force to be reckoned with, and I'd bet both of our parents would tell us that we deserve it."

"I think we should adopt."

"No way, Fablo. You promised you'd carry first, and I'm definitely holding you to that promise. I'm dying to have you pregnant, and me not."

"Did I ever tell you I was sorry for that in high school?"

"Unh unh, too late for that. After all the crap you put me through when I was pregnant, I gets to get my payback."

Santana groaned loudly. "Ew…Quinnie, your Lima Heights Adjacent accent is horrible."

"Y _our_ Lima Heights Adjacent accent was horrible. You totally lucked out that our classmates were total idiots and no one called you on it."

"What're you talking about? I could totally kick anyone's ass, anytime, anywhere."

"Right, and is that why Lauren used you as a mop?"

"I was on my period."

"Unh huh."

"Where are you at right now?"

"My apartment."

"Did you go snooping yet?"

"I do not need to lower myself to snooping," Quinn said haughtily.

"So…yes?" Santana questioned knowingly.

"Yes," Quinn reluctantly admitted. " _Where_ do you hide the chocolate?"

"Get off it, Q, that's for me to know and you to never find out."

"Have you been alone at your place the whole time?"

"Mostly. Mercedes and I are going to have an old fashioned high school slumber party this weekend, though."

Santana quickly fired off a text to Mercedes. _**Need favor. Will do anything for you in return.**_

_**Mercedes: What's that?** _

"Really? Are you going to invite Britt over?"

_**Santana: Make Quinn breakfast on Saturday morning for me?** _

_**Mercedes: So. Freaking. Cute.** _

_**Mercedes: Just so you know, that was my stink face.** _

"Yeah, we'll get right on it. By the way, did you know that Tamara's pregnant?"

"She cheated on Brittany?"

"No, they planned it."

"And she didn't even tell me? How rude!"

"Oh, and speaking of that, Young and 'Cedes are officially over."

"I'm going to kill Sam! If she gets back with him, I'm pulling some teeth."

"As much as I liked Young for her, if that's what she wants to do, I'm not going to say anything to her about it. When you have kids, you try to raise them up right, show them the proper way, but they grow up and they become their own people."

Santana laughed. "I know, I know, but I had just settled on their perfect ship name: Yome. Yo me."

"I miss you," Quinn said unexpectedly.

"I miss you, too, babe. I haven't been able to sleep right without your elbows digging into my stomach, or the sound of your snoring."

"Uh no, Flopez, you're the snorer." Quinn's smile floundered. "Are you coming home soon?"

"Week and a half, and then I'll be back in your arms. Hardly any time at all, and when you wake up tomorrow morning, it'll be even closer to me being there."

"I don't like sleeping alone. You've grown on me, San."

"You've grown on me, too, babe. Do you want me to sing you to sleep tonight?"

"Please?"

After thinking it over, Santana decided on the Backstreet Boys' _Spanish Eyes_ substituting 'hazel' for 'Spanish'. Santana watched those hazels slowly close until all she could see were the backs of eyelids. Quinn's head tilted at an angle, her mouth opened slightly, her breath evening out. "Te amo, baby."

"Luv you too, San," Quinn whispered back sleepily. Santana curled around the laptop and watched her sleep until she fell asleep.

* * *

"San! Santana!"

Santana smiled at the sound of her wife's voice. She'd barely spotted her in the crowd before lips met hers roughly. Santana didn't care. She was kissing Quinn back just as fiercely, pulling her closer to her, her hand tangling in her hair. When the kiss broke off, they just stood there, foreheads pressed against each other, locked in an embrace.

"Oh my god, babe, I missed you so much," Santana panted. Both of them were breathing hard.

"Me too," Quinn assured her. "We seriously need to get your bags and get home, because we've got some serious catching up to do."

Quinn paused in a comical way, and Santana realized that it was because she had just noticed Santana's haircut. Since they were usually both lying down when they Skyped this was really the first time that Quinn was seeing it.

"What did you _do_?"

Santana's fingers self-consciously went up to her hair. "I thought I'd cut it, what do you think?"

"You cut your hair."

Santana shrugged. "I thought a change would be good."

"You cut your hair," Quinn repeated in disbelief.

"Babe, how many times have you cut your hair?"

"That's different. I'm me. You're…," she waved. "It's just gone!"

Quinn hit her on the arm in a joking way, and Santana recoiled, taken off guard. "Ow, babe," she hissed before she realized what she was doing.

"Ow…what ow…? I barely touched you!"

"You kind of got me on the arm there," Santana said. "It's just a little sore."

Quinn was pulling up the sleeve of her wife's shirt, stopping when she saw the white gauze wrapped around her bicep. Before Santana could protest, she was unwrapping the gauze to reveal Santana's still bruised arm with the stitched up wound. They both seemed to have forgotten that they were in the middle of an airport. "What happened?" Quinn demanded, her face getting all scary. "First the hair, then this."

"You don't like the hair?"

"I…never seen you with a short hair style before."

"Yeah, but what do you think?"

Quinn bit her lip, her eyes darkening. "It's alright," Quinn said, aiming for nonchalance, but Santana had already seen the lust in her wife's eyes. Quinn liked the haircut. "Whether or not I like it is not the point," Quinn said. "You're supposed to come back to me the way you left me. Whole, and mine."

"I'm still yours, babe. And I'm whole."

"Then why do you have a bandage on your arm?"

"I kind of fell on the edge of a filing cabinet. That could happen here." It wasn't a lie. Santana had fallen on a cabinet after she had been shot for the sole purpose of being able to tell her wife something that wasn't quite the truth, but wasn't a lie.

"Any other disfigurement I should know about?"

"Are you saying that my hair is disfigured?"

"Not at all." Quinn kissed her, but left enough room so that she could look her wife in her eyes. Santana slid her hand down Quinn's arm, to her hand. "But next time wait until you're home to go changing, okay?"

Santana read what Quinn wasn't saying in the spaces, and she nodded. "Okay. I'm sorry." She lifted Quinn's chin. "I'm not going anywhere for a really long time." Santana slid her hand down Quinn's arm, to her hand. "Okay?"

Quinn nodded. "As long as you promise."

"I do."

"Okay."

Santana gave Quinn's hand an extra squeeze before they went to reclaim Santana's suitcases, and find the car. Quinn had driven Santana's and after luggage was placed in the trunk, Santana got behind the wheel. "I know you want to head straight home, but do you mind, since we're out and all, if we drive to Framingham? I got Phil this really neat turquoise necklace, and some other stuff, and I want to give it to him now before I forget." Santana also wanted to hold him in her arms, and make sure that he was okay. Ever since she got shot, she felt herself becoming more protective.

Santana surprisingly got no resistance from Quinn. "Yeah, sure." She tugged on the hand that wasn't on the steering wheel. "What'd you bring _me_?"

"Babe, I had something delivered to the house for every day I was gone."

"Yeah, but that was stuff ordered off of Amazon; you can do that from anywhere. I want souvenirs."

"Ah, damn it, I'm going to have to fly back out to the southwest again. I knew I forgot something."

"Santana Quintanilla Fabray-Lopez, you better not-,"

Santana's phone rang. She smirked at Quinn before connecting the call. "Santana Fabray-Lopez speaking."

"There's something I have to tell you," Bryne said.

"Now? I'm in the car with Quinn."

Quinn cocked a brow at the mention of her name. "Yes, now."

Santana felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle at the seriousness of Bryne's voice, and because the timing of the call felt far too coincidental.

"What?"

"Something happened while you were gone." Bryne switched over to German, so Santana did the same.

"Something like what?" Quinn gave her a look at Santana's use of the foreign language. Santana covered the mouth piece. "Explain later," she mouthed. "Something, like someone was in one of my apartments while I was gone, someone's got a trail on me, something happened to or with geliebte?" It was their word for Quinn.

"Something like Hazel provided evidence to the States' Department against Oleg Katayev."

Santana felt the world suddenly spinning wildly around her. Her heart rate picked up so quickly that she almost pulled off to the side of the road because she thought she was going to start hyperventilating. She concentrated on the ringing in her ears to calm her down, and pressed down on the gas medal. "She did what? Why? She doesn't know Katayev," Santana hissed.

"Jenna had involvement with him-,"

"Schiesdreck! _Jenna_ did. Not Gloria. Jenna met Katayev eight years ago; I was there! I've been keeping track of him since then, so I know _she's_ had involvement; Hazel didn't show up anywhere, and even if Jenna dealt with him after that, which I know she didn't, she for damn sure wouldn't have brought him around Hazel!"

"The evidence indicates otherwise."

"Evidence that she was spoon fed!" Evidence that Santana may or may not have collected herself. "How could you even entertain the thought?"

"It wasn't me."

"So what does this mean?"

"You know what it means. You know how this works."

Santana's hand slammed down on the steering wheel and an expletive fell from her mouth.

Beside her, Quinn recoiled at the sound of anger and frustration in Santana's voice. "San, what is it?"

"You set me up!" Realization was slowly falling over Santana. It was Bryne who had first pointed out Gloria/Hazel to her. Bryne knew that she and Jenna were associates, but not entirely close. Bryne knew that Jenna had connections with one of Boston's largest Russian mob families. She blinked and realized she was crying. What the fuck?

Bryne's voice was eerily calm. "I didn't."

"Is that why _I_ had to be the one to go to Arizona? So this could be set up? You knew! You knew, and you didn't tell me! Was this what this was about? Get close to Jenna, find out what I could on Katayev, get close to Gloria any way I could, and…try to weasel pillow talk confessions from her-?"

"I said, I didn't know! I had no idea!"

"So when the State Department said they needed a witness, you didn't give them her name?"

"Nobody came to me."

"Schiesdreck," Santana bristled. "You're supposed to be my friend!"

Santana could hear a change on the line at the word. "I am an agent, Santana, always that first. My duty has always, and will always be to my country above everything else. How many times did I warn you about that? _You_ refused to listen? But I didn't _know_ , okay? No one set you up."

Distantly, Santana could feel Quinn squeezing her hand. "San, what is it? Please tell me. You're scaring me."

When Santana pulled into the parking lot of Hazel's apartment complex, Santana removed her piece and bullets from her suitcase, quickly loading the gun before tucking it into her waist band as she exited the car. "Stay here," she ordered Quinn, placing a barely there kiss on her lips before she got out of the car.

She dashed up the stairs taking them three at a time. She barreled down the walkway as if her life depended on it. A confused Quinn followed behind her as fast as she could. She was so intent on catching up with her, that when she turned into the apartment she ended up running into Santana standing in the doorway. Literally. She ran into the back of her wife because Santana had only gone in as far as the door, and had stopped right there.

Quinn may have only been able to figure out a few snippets of the conversation Santana'd been having, but from the tone of it she knew that whatever it was wasn't good. That Santana was just standing there after rushing inside made Quinn really certain she didn't want to know why Santana had stopped in the doorway. Quinn didn't know Hazel enough to be concerned or worried about her well-being, and her relationship with Phil was solely through Santana. She was getting to know him better, starting to like him, even, but her concern for him was because of those two things; not because she was otherwise felt bound to the kid.

She almost didn't want to look over Santana's shoulder, fearing the worst, but when she did, she saw…nothing. Thankfully, no dead bodies were lying there in a pool of blood. There was no blood, no bodies, but there were also no clothes strewn around, or toys laying out either. There was nothing. Absolutely nothing. No TV, no sofa, no pictures hanging up. Even the scruff mark on the wall that Quinn had noticed once before, was gone.

"Wo?" Santana demanded into the phone after the shock wore off.

There was a noise, a creak in the floorboards that meant someone was in the apartment with them. It happened too quickly for Quinn to react, but Santana already had her gun out, and had positioned herself so that Quinn was entirely behind her. Santana made the realization that the feedback in her ear meant that the person was Bryne two seconds before Bryne stepped into view. She kept her gun leveled on her though.

"Wo sind sie? Where are they?"

"I don't know, Santana. WITSEC has them."

"She _can't_ testify against Katayev. If she does that she'll have a target placed on her back, and we both know she doesn't know anything."

"They needed a witness."

"She doesn't know anything!"

"Her testimony has the power to put the man away for life."

"His family will _kill_ her!"

She felt a tentative hand on her shoulder. "Santana?" Quinn questioned from behind her.

"Wait for me in the car," Santana said, not taking her eyes off of Bryne. Her trigger finger itched.

"Put the gun away, Santana," Bryne calmly instructed. Bryne never told her to put her gun away. Usually she encouraged her to keep it out. That teeny, tiny voice inside of her warned her that she should probably listen to Bryne, but she ignored it.

"I know you might not care about that, but she has a son! My son."

"I risked serious censure on my job helping her get away from Jenna, so don't pull that card on me! I had nothing to do with this Santana. I told you I didn't know."

"Then why are you here?"

"So you wouldn't flip your shit and go completely crazy. To remind you that you can't go looking for them. To remind you that they're safe, and protected,"

"I was protecting them!"

"You let her stay 30 minutes away from a city where she's supposed to be dead! Do you know how incredibly stupid and dangerous that was! Not just for them, but for you as well. We're just lucky that Jenna was just now possibly thinking that something might not be on the up and up. You got too close, and you allowed it to cloud your judgment. The Marshalls will take care of them. They know their job."

Everything around her just felt so damned heavy. It made sense, it made all the sense in the world. That was the problem: all the sense in the world put Phil God knows where, where she couldn't see him, where she couldn't pick him up, where she couldn't hold him, or read him to sleep at night. She knew that this, Hazel disappearing in the middle of the night, had always been the possible (probable) outcome, and yet she still allowed herself to get attached. She really felt like she couldn't trust her judgment anymore. Hell, was she doing anything right?

A soft hand on her back alerted her to Quinn's presence. Slowly, she lowered her gun. Bryne took a cautious step towards Santana. "This…was left for you."

She lowered her eyes to see what was in her hands. It was a plaster cast of Phil's hands with the words _I love my Mami_ carved into the hardened clay. Santana reached out to take the hand imprint. Her hand folding over his. "They'll be taken care of."

She knew that was true, but it didn't stop it from hurting. Bryne gave Santana one last look before she walked around her and Quinn, and out the apartment door.

After several silent minutes, Quinn silently slid her hand into Santana's hand. Santana looked at her for the first time since Quinn had followed her inside. "You're supposed to be in the car."

Quinn's free hand moved to cup Santana's cheek in her hand. She used her thumb to wipe away fallen tears. "I'm where I'm supposed to be."

Santana's shoulders sagged because if there was one person in her life who could honestly understand what she felt like, it was the woman in front of her. She had given birth, and had to give up her child, possibly the worst hell, short of death, that a mother could go through, and what's worse she went through it almost completely alone. Thank God that Mercedes had the sense she'd lacked back then.

Santana hadn't given birth to Phil, but she had held him on the day he was born. She had changed his diapers, and stayed up with him when he was sick, and spent hours on the phone with him, just listening to him say non-sense words. She had cheered him on at his first steps, and brought him books, and taught him how to read, and to cook. Her heart had expanded to let him in…and just like that, he was gone. If she had known then that the day before she left was going to be the last time that she would hold him, she would have held him just a little bit tighter.

She felt Quinn standing beside her, silently offering her reassurances. Quinn didn't realize it, but she had such an amazing heart, a compassionate soul, and despite everything that Santana had put her through, she was letting her know that she was still here with her and always would be. The tears Santana managed not to cry in front of Bryne rolled down her face now. "I love you," Santana blubbered. "So, so very much."

"You better," Quinn returned. She brushed away a few more of Santana's tears before she kissed her. "Let's go home now; we've got some talking to do, ja?"

Santana gave a sad sniffle. "Ja."


	34. For the WIN

Alternative Titles: **The Value of a Dollar or What happens at weddings, doesn't always stay at weddings.**

Quinn offered to drive them home, but Santana was okay, so she drove. She figured that Quinn was already stressed out enough, after being away from each other for three weeks, and baring witness to what had just gone on. Santana didn't feel that she needed any other burdens at the moment, so she drove. Her eyes stayed surprisingly dry. It seemed that what had needed to come out had done so in Hazel's empty apartment. Santana didn't have any more tears to shed. She wasn't angry, either. Not at Hazel, not at Bryne. She was just sad, and that was okay. The reassuring hand that rested in hers let her know how okay that was.

"Quinn?" Santana questioned, when they were only a few blocks away from Santana's apartment.

"Yeah?" There was a note of uncertainty to Quinn's voice when she answered, an underlying fear.

Santana gave her wife's hand a gentle squeeze. "I love you."

Upstairs, Santana methodically unpacked her suitcase, leaving the Bond gun, the Walther PPK, inside, but returning her Glock to the box under the bed. She knew that Quinn was watching her, but she didn't care. If she had a question to ask, Santana would answer it. If she didn't ask, Santana felt like she might volunteer the information anyway.

She was surprised by the hands on her, spinning her around. She gave Quinn a curious look, but didn't otherwise move or say anything. Almost as a parallel of Bryne's actions when she was checking Santana for a gun, Quinn began to undress Santana, only she didn't stop before the point of indecency. She removed the shirt that Santana was wearing, as well as the wife beater, her movements stilling at the sight of Santana's arm, still un-bandaged from where she'd unwound the wrappings at the airport. The arm was as bruised as it was earlier, the stitches that poked out of her skin still as black. With the flat of her thumb, she carefully ran a hand along the stitches, Santana feeling each grove of Quinn's thumb as it flicked over the thread. She had to remember to go to the doctor tomorrow to make sure there was no permanent nerve damage done even if it had been a clean in and out.

After five minutes of inspecting the wound, the bruise, the stitches, Quinn moved on to other parts of Santana's arm. Close enough to Santana that she could feel her breath as she inspected the limb, moving on to her left arm after she was apparently satisfied with the right. She removed her bra, and disinterestedly discarded the fabric, not caring where it landed. She examined every inch of the exposed upper torso, counting the freckles that dotted Santana's shoulder blades, the mole on her upper left arm, a scar that Santana had gotten from cheerleading, the scars from her breast augmentation. She turned Santana in her arms to look at her back, her shoulder blades, her collarbone.

Next went the pants. Quinn dropped down to her knees, unbuttoning the button, tugging slightly at them to pull the zipper down. She merely slid the pants down to her ankles, and Santana didn't care enough to step out of them as Quinn continued her inspection. Up one leg, down the other, then turned around to inspect the back. The underwear came next, and if Santana hadn't already gotten the severity of this inspection, she did when Quinn didn't even squeeze her ass, or place a kiss on any of the exposed flesh, save for her wound.

It wasn't until Quinn finally brought her eyes back up to meet Santana's that whatever compulsion that had guided Quinn's actions disappeared. "I'm whole, baby," Santana whispered, pulling Quinn back to her feet. Quinn nodded, and acknowledged the tears that had started once the inspection was complete, but didn't bother to wipe them away. Santana leaned up to kiss her a reassuring kiss, to whisper assurance to her. Deep down she knew, she knew her life was not something she could promise Quinn; she couldn't promise that a shootout wouldn't end with a bullet in other more vital parts of her flesh, or even that a freak car accident wouldn't prematurely claim her life. Deep down she knew that, but those thoughts were pushed so far down that when she promised Quinn that she would always come home to her, it didn't feel like a lie.

"I can't handle it, if you…if something were to happen."

Santana attempted a step closer to Quinn, but she half-way tripped over her pants, so she stepped out of them, and kicked her underwear over her feet as well, so the only thing that she was wearing on her birthday suit were her socks. She hugged Quinn closely to her. "I'm yours," she said firmly. "No one else gets to claim me but you; not even death. When we're 99 and have lived out all of our life, I'm Jack to your Jill. You know, you'll fall down and break your crown, and I'll come tumbling behind right after."

Quinn put a hand on the back of Santana's neck, and pulled her toward her. "You better."

Santana felt like Quinn was over dressed to this party, so she undressed her wife. Her fingers faltered when her eyes fell on the apple green bra and panty set that Quinn was wearing beneath her clothes. "Babe?" Santana practically whimpered. "Is this new?"

"I thought I'd surprise you…do you like it?"

Santana just stood in awe at the woman in front of her, and how perfectly the color went with her eyes. "Baby," Santana said in appreciation.

"I kind of imagined your homecoming going a different way," Quinn explained.

Santana attempted to pull back. "I'm sorry."

Quinn pulled her back to her. "It's not like you planned for this to happen."

Santana shook her head, sadly. "I always knew that there was this possibility, but I was okay with it, because I knew if Hazel ever did panic and disappear in the wind, it wouldn't be that difficult for me to find them again. I'd always respect Hazel's wishes, I wouldn't just like show up or anything, it'd be just to make sure they were okay. And eventually Hazel would call me to let me know, anyway. I was never okay, okay, but it wasn't like this pressing worry. I never would have thought that things would happen like this."

"I only half way got the conversation so you're going to have to fill me in on what happened."

"Hazel 'passed along'," Santana did air quotes, "information to the Feds about this guy named Oleg Katayev. He's a Russian mobster known as 'little brother' in the family. He's involved with mostly drugs, but he dabbles in some weapons trafficking and some other things that you really don't want to know about, and I really don't want to tell you about, either."

"And Hazel, she knows him?"

"No. As far as I know, she doesn't. I've been keeping taps on this guy for more than 8 years, and I never came across her name, or a code name that could be her either. Jenna knows him, though."

"How does Jenna know him?"

"She's one of the most preeminent communications professor's in the country, and her family is also New England old money. At the most, Jenna might have said something about Oleg in Hazel's company, but I doubt that the two of them ever actually met."

"Then why would she…?"

"People who testify against the Katayev family, they tend to disappear. Oleg has a lot of bodies and misdeeds to his name, and my guess is that they had something on him, but they needed a witness to make the charges stick, so they may have fabricated one."

"That..."

"Is a hundred percent illegal, but remember when I said that you and I…not everything's cut and paste in my world, babe. He's a real bad guy, and he's managed to slip through the cracks so many times on technicalities, despite us actually having hard concrete evidence of his activities."

"But why would _she_ claim to have information she doesn't have if it would put her and Phil in danger?"

"Maybe she wanted to be a hero, or maybe she just wanted to feel safe, I don't know. I honest to God don't know, unless she happened to accidentally run into Jenna and she got spooked. I know Hazel came into the city at least twice, but I really think that the Marshall's came to her first. Or maybe she just wanted to be done with me."

"Why would you say that?"

"She grew up a member of society and now she's working a minimum wage job, and I was supplementing her income. She depended on me, and I'm…busy, I'm abrasive, I intruded on her life, and treated her like she's a kid."

"I don't think that it has anything to do with you."

Santana snorted. "Hell, she probably thought I was going to take away her kid, but why, why tell me that that was what she wanted?

"Maybe, maybe she did know him, like through Jenna or something, and she was convinced that he needed to be taken off the streets, or maybe she wanted to be a hero to Phil. Phil thought of you as practically Super Woman, maybe she wanted to be redeemed a little in her son's eyes."

"Maybe," Santana accepted. She couldn't figure out, and her head hurt simply from trying.

Santana sagged, so Quinn guided them towards the bed, coaxing her wife to lay down. Santana was still naked except for the socks, and Quinn was in her bra and underwear, but their fingers and toes were the only part of them that was touching, their eyes not leaving the other.

"What was that you were speaking in the car?"

Santana didn't hesitate. "German."

"How do you know German?"

"I used to watch Rebecca on Verbotene Liebe on YouTube and when it was found that I had a penchant for learning languages, and that I could recognize and understand German fairly well, I was immersed in the language. It's the language I have the most trouble with, so Bryne speaks it the most often; she uses it for commands." Santana saw the look on Quinn's face, and beat her to it. "I want to tell you something that I hope you will hear and honestly believe."

"What's that?" Quinn questioned wryly.

"I'm not a spy," Santana said, losing track of how many times she had told Quinn these words. "Spies, the James Bonds' of the world, are CIA field agents, and-," _Bryne_ went unsaid _._ Not that she could tell Quinn this, but Bryne worked for the GSA. Technically she was a for-hire police officer. It was only when you tried to assess what it was she was 'policing' that things got a little murky. Bryne wasn't some B6-13 style killing machine. Santana had no desire to know-and she knew Bryne had no desire to say-how many people Bryne's killed. Santana meant it when she'd said it mattered more how many people you saved. And Bryne had far more pluses in that column than minuses. "I mean it when I say I am pretty much a loggy. I do analysts and logistics, that's what I get paid for."

Quinn breathed in and out, steeling herself for the answer. "And how dangerous is that?"

"90% of the time, not at all."

"And the other 10%?"

"How about we focus on the 90? That's still an A, right? And I am very, very rarely in a position where I even have to worry about it. I've only done field work a handful of times, and-," Santana stopped short of saying the only reason she had been in danger this past time was because they couldn't outright kill the guys. Or that she wasn't even supposed to leave the warehouse. "This time was just a special case."

Santana sat up on her knees. "I know, I know it seems like I've just been hitting you with thing after thing, and you didn't sign up for this, when you married me. If it's too much…if I'm too much…,"

Quinn pulled her closer, shutting her up with her lips. "Oh, well…okay," Santana said nonsensically.

"I love you, Santana," Quinn verbalized, in case there was any lingering doubt. "I signed on for you, when we got married. You signed on to all of my crazy, and our past, and I signed on to you. But could you please explain something to me?"

"What's that?"

"You're a doctor's daughter. How in the world did you end up….doing this?"

Santana hid a knowing grimace. "Careful, Quinnie, you biases are coming through."

"You know what I mean! You were a cheerleader!"

"Sue's highly regimented routines make for the making of great military personnel. Physically fit, used to people yelling at them, able to perform under pressure and at a level of excellence unparalleled seems like the perfect candidate, don't you think? After Puck enlisted, I thought about it; going into the military. I was kind of just floating around: I was in Kentucky, I was in New York, I ran off to Lesbos with Brittany. I didn't have any direction, and I was just taking up space at the HummelBerry loft. College didn't seem like a good fit, it didn't seem like the music thing was going to work out for me, and wouldn't you know, physically fit and lost without a direction is exactly what the military's looking for.

"I visited with Puck one weekend after he graduated from A-school, and he took the two of us out to a bar with those wonderful fake IDs that we had. It was just a dumb night all around: Puck could have gotten a dishonorable discharge from the military, and like I said, I showed off at the wrong time to a pretty girl, for some free drinks." Santana exhaled a huff of hair that could have been a laugh. "It was just this simple, stupid trick. There were five guys, and I guessed what was in each of their pockets. There's like a list of the 100 top things that people carry around on them, and based on the dimensions and weight of their pockets…it's really what amounts to a parlor trick. Like I said, dumb. I didn't know anyone was paying attention to me; that's the thing, when you're out with your friends in a public place, you think that it's just you guys and really it's not. Later that same night, some dude tried to hit on me, and I laid him out on the bar when he got a little handsy.

"Well, after this woman walks up to me, and she's pretty, and she seems interested in me, so I'm interested in her, and she asks me, she says is that a trick, or can I do it repeatedly. I told her to try me. And you know if I was sober, I would have thought "this is strange", the situation would have hit a red flag or two. But at the time I didn't think anything of it, or her questions, I just thought it was fun. She empties her purse, shows me everything, tells me to close my eyes, and then puts five items back in the bag, covers up the rest, and asks which items are in and which items are out. She even does this in a couple of different languages. We do this five, ten, twenty times, and she ordered me shots after I'd get it right several times in a row. I was only wrong once. And then she asked me how I did my trick earlier, and I explained about the patterns, and of things being in people's pockets, and what not."

"Was it Jenna?"

Santana shook her head. "No."

"Bryne?"

"Seriously…babe, you know,"

"You're not allowed to answer questions about Bryne," Quinn chanted. Santana gave a firm nod. "But you can about Jenna?" Santana nodded again. "What's your deal with her?"

"Jenna's father is Puck's commanding officer. We met her when Puck graduated from basic. She was in town at the same time, visiting her father. She took me out to a bar. We danced."

"You hooked up?"

Santana frowned, her face twisting uncomfortably; the same it did whenever those words came up in relation to the woman. "If we did, I don't remember it. And from what I heard about her since our falling out, that's not that unusual. What I do know is that she drugged me once, but that was years down the road, after I found out that she was beating up on Gloria…Hazel…whatever the Marshalls changed her name to. What Jenna and I had was a flirtationship, a general appreciation of each other, and sexual chemistry that was kind of scary at times, to be honest. The timing just was always bad, something always happened, and thank God for that because being around Jenna now turns my stomach. I use her, professionally, and attempted to keep things friendly between us for work related reasons. She is very good at what she does, and her knowledge is an asset. Too bad her character resembles shit."

Quinn wanted to steer the conversation back to a better place. "So you showed off in a bar…?"

"And the woman slips me her card, and asks if I would like to come in for an interview when I sober up. I didn't think she was serious. I thought she was just joking around, was just trying to slip me her number on the sly. I called the number, was asked to come in…and I was a kid. I thought like the sheltered, doctor's kid that I was. Go look at Puck's Facebook page; really any soldier's page. Then you'll see these 18 year olds posting pictures on their media sites with Ak-47s and all that, and you can tell that they don't think any of it's real, that they're just playing around. That's how I was. The power was appealing, and the other stuff, it didn't really sink in with me. It didn't occur to me that I was learning how to shoot a gun, because there was a chance that I would need to. It didn't strike me that I was learning survival techniques because it was life or death."

"But you don't do what Bryne does?"

Quinn was momentarily worried that Santana would construe that as a direct question about Bryne, but she didn't. "No," Santana agreed. "I don't. That's what they wanted me to train to do, but I chose not to."

"What stopped you from going all the way?"

"You," Santana answered simply. "After I graduated, Command wanted me to move to DC, but if I did, I knew I wouldn't get to see you as much. Or often. And it seemed that things were really coming together with us, until _that_ weekend happened anyway."

Quinn grunted. "God, t _hat_ weekend," she mumbled. "If we ever get to do life over again, I would completely get rid of that weekend."

"I wouldn't," Santana said softly. Her hand played with Quinn's fingers, and she looked kind of shy about the words. "I think things happened for a reason; like it gave us both the time we needed to mature into our relationship, I really like what we're growing into, and…" there was that hesitation again, "if not for things happening the way they did, Phil wouldn't have come into the picture. I know, I know he's not biologically my child, but they change you, you know. Kids. And when I held him that first time, he looked my way as if he already knew me, and the way he would look at me with the utmost trust and security…even the way he would drag me into his room to fight off the monsters under his bed."

Santana sighed. Quinn gave her a reassuring squeeze. "So, that's it? There's nothing that you can do? You don't even get to know how he is. _Where_ he is?"

"I know where he is," Santana said to Quinn's surprise. "Well, I know how to find him, anyway. I just…," Santana raised her arms and let them fall, "can't." Quinn waited for an explanation. "Do you remember a few years back when the so called WikiLeaks happened?" Quinn nodded. "Well the guy, what was his name Snow, Snowden? The guy was either being paraded as a hero or a terrorist, depending on who you ask, but honestly it was more surprising that people were 'shocked' about the reveal that the government could and did listen in on domestic calls since Gene Hackman revealed that very same information to Will Smith in _Enemy of the State_ way back in 1998. Your service provider can actually do more listening than the government can, and _anybody_ can listen to your cell phone conversations with a receiver or certain inexpensive software.

"That's why I wasn't allowed to take my phone with me; it's possible to even access the speakers on a cell and listen in on conversation even when a call isn't active. Our cell phones," she said, indicating Quinn and hers, "are both blocked against that, but it's a precaution Command insists on. Anyway, I'm rambling even worse than Rachel. All you really need to take away from what I just said is that cell phone conversations can and are heard by anybody, and private phone calls are recorded.

"I gave Phil a cell phone awhile back and told him to say a very specific sentence, 'There's a fire, Stef', if there was ever an emergency. Even if Stef can't tell me the time that the call was made, as long as Phil made the call, and said those specific words, I can locate the call. Locate where it was made from, and from there it would take absolutely no effort to follow where they went." Santana looked like she swallowed something distasteful. "I find things. That's what I do for the GSA. I locate merchandise, equipment, weapons, that have been stolen from active and inactive government facilities, track them down, and send out a team to retrieve them. I'm good at it. Almost as good as picking out layouts for children's books.

"I know how to find things that other people think are sufficiently hidden. I just can't go looking for them because that's my job, that's what I do. It wouldn't take any effort whatsoever to find that information out about me. If someone is actually looking for them, and they followed me, physically or digitally, I would simply be leading them to Hazel, to Phil, so I can't. It's not worth the risk to me. The Marshall's will take care of him…it just means that I…can't."

Quinn pulled Santana close to her, and held her tightly. "If I want to assure that they remain safe, I have to accept that I can no longer be in their life."

There was nothing Quinn could say to make it not hurt as much, but she could hold on to her tightly. She was amazed that Santana was revealing all of this to her, that she was being this open, but then again, they had traveled a very long way in order to get to this place right now.

Quinn and Santana were just settling into a lull when Santana's phone rang. She checked the caller before she answered it. "Hey, Stef."

"I'm sorry, Santana."

"Did he call?"

"Yep. 7:34 p.m. two days ago. I tried calling-,"

"I know, I was out of range. I've got you for the first game of the season."

"For the Pats?"

"Yep."

"Solid."

"Thanks, Stef. For everything."

"Anytime, Santana, any time."

Santana tossed the phone aside. Quinn cuddled back into Santana's side, seeking out her hand. "Bad news?" she questioned gently.

"No. Mere temptation. This…I'll get over it, it's just going to take some time."

"Well, just know that I'll be here, no matter how long it takes."

Santana smiled down at her. "Thanks, Babe."

* * *

Quinn and Santana naked cuddled all night. After three weeks of not having her wife, all Quinn wanted to do was be wrapped up in her, so when Santana extracted herself from the bed the next morning, a half sleeping Quinn whimpered at the loss of contact. Her sub-conscious was slightly surprised that she was even getting up for work, because after the events of yesterday, she kind of expected Santana to take the day off. Santana nuzzled her. "You going to get up with me, babe, or are you going to stay in bed?"

Quinn buried her head in her pillow, and curled up even more, snuggling into the spot that Santana had occupied. "Okay, baby," Santana said. "I'll see you when you get home from work, then?"

Quinn grunted an affirmative. She didn't open her eyes, but she did turn her face upwards, and Santana obliged, kissing her. "Love you."

"Love you, too. Meet me for lunch?"

Quinn nodded. Santana planted another kiss before she headed off to work. Quinn was just settling in for 20 more minutes of sleep before she had to get up herself, when the world's most annoying ring tone went off. " _Get UP! Don't cha wanna? Get UP! This time ya gotta, GET UP! Girl get up on the floor! GET Up! Time is Wastin', Get UP, asses shaking, GET Up, Girl, get up on the floor!"_

Quinn grunted, because her phone was just out of reach, so she had to actually move her body to reach it. But it was Mercedes. Grumpily, Quinn opened one eye, than the other, and after a long second, she rolled out of the bed, reaching her phone just as Mercedes was calling back.

"H'lo," she questioned, groggily.

"Did I wake you up?" Mercedes questioned.

"Not really," Quinn lied. "What's up?"

"Do you work today?"

Little alarms started going off because that was a silly question. Of course she worked. It was Monday and wasn't a holiday.

"What's up?"

"I…I need to go shopping, and I wanted to know if you wanted to come shopping with me."

Quinn could hear the need in Mercedes voice. Quinn was awake now. "Yeah, sure, be there in about fifteen."

"Thanks, girl."

"No problem," Quinn said before she hung up. She called out of work, and took a quick sponge bath in the bathroom sink. She was as good as her word. Fifteen minutes later, Quinn was knocking to be buzzed into Mercedes brownstone. Mercedes looked like she was already having a rough morning. Her hair was still wrapped, and she was wearing only a sweat suit.

"Where're we heading?" she questioned.

Mercedes was frowning. "I don't care. Whatever is closest."

They took Mercedes car, and drove to the nearest Target. Quinn kept giving her best friend sidelong looks as they aimlessly wandered up and down aisles, randomly placing things into her cart. Something had been bothering Mercedes for a few days, now, Quinn had just been so wrapped up in her world that she hadn't noticed. "Are you going to tell me what's wrong?" she finally questioned.

Mercedes looked as if she was doing her best to keep her face from crumbling, and yet she insisted, "Nothing's wrong. I just wanted some company."

Quinn smiled slightly. "You're still bad about that."

"About what?"

"Lying convincingly. Tell you what, I'm going to leave you alone for a few minutes, go get some cookies and some ice cream, then we can go pick up some movies, and lay around the house and pig out all day. Sound good?"

Instantly, the woman looked relieved. "Thank you, Quinn," Mercedes said gratefully.

Quinn nodded. "What kind of ice cream do you want?"

"Chocolate swirl and marshmallow?"

"No problem."

Quinn purposely strode away, leaving Mercedes to get what she came to get. When they met back up at check-out Quinn didn't so much as glance in the cart, and she subtlety angled herself away when Mercedes started loading up the conveyor belt. Back at Mercedes' they left the bags sitting on the floor of her living room, as Quinn made up two bowls of ice cream. They sat through two movies in silence, and it wasn't until Mercedes moved to put in a third that Quinn finally asked. "How late are you?"

Mercedes pushed away the bowl of chips in front of her. "Two weeks."

"Have you taken a test already?"

"No, I didn't want to, alone-," Quinn definitely could understand that, though she had done so by herself.

"Did you get a test?" she nodded. "Are you going to take it?"

Very slowly, Mercedes nodded. Quinn placed a hand on her shoulder. "Take it first before you go all crazy. You could just be late."

Mercedes pulled the test out of one of the bags, and went into the powder room. She came back out, looking strained.

"My mom and dad are going to kill me."

"It could be negative."

"It's not. I've never been this late before."

"Just wait until you get the result. And besides, it's not like you're 16 years old, and living in your parent's house. You're 30, have a successful career, and have your own place."

"I'm not married. I'm not even dating anyone."

"I'm sure Young-,"

"It's not Young's. Young and I never had sex. The only person I've had sex with in the past six months is Sam."

Quinn kind of let those words wash over her. Good lord, if she was pregnant with Sam's kid… "You _know_ Sam'll take care of his kid."

"But that's the thing, Quinn. I don't want…I don't want this to be a reason that Sam and I are together. I love Sam, being with him is like getting all the solo's in Glee club, and being on stage and singing to a captive audience. I've always felt like an infatuated school girl when I'm around him, and that hasn't changed."

"So…?"

"If we were meant to be together, wouldn't we have worked that out by now? I'm the only non-white person he's ever dated? Not only that, but I'm one of the only non-blonde's he's dated. He certainly has a type, and I'm not it. I know, too, that he falls, hard. He loves hard, with whoever's in front of him. Hell, he proposed to you, and he fake-married Brittany. Who says he's actually in love with me, and not just in love with love?"

"You don't think Sam's in love with you?"

"I think he likes being in love."

"He had a date at the reception that he flat out ignored because he couldn't keep his eyes off of you, and I didn't see him getting in a fight with Tamara, or Santana, or anyone else's date, just yours."

Mercedes shook her words away. "Sometimes I feel like I'm his last resort, or something, and I don't want to be that. I definitely don't want to be one of those stupid girls that loves their man far more than he loves them. I don't want to trap him."

"You don't have to be with him, just because you may or may not be pregnant with his kid, which we don't know about yet because we haven't even looked at the test results yet. Being pregnant doesn't mean that you have to be with him."

"I don't want to be a single mom raising a kid, either."

"How about we wait until we have the results first. Did you just take the one?"

"No, there were two sticks in there so I peed on them both." Mercedes shivered, as if the words themselves were repulsive.

"I think it's been 10 minutes." Mercedes didn't make to move. "Do you want me to look?" After a second she nodded. Quinn stood up.

"Wait!" Mercedes grabbed for her hand. She pulled out her cell phone.

"What're you doing?"

"I'm calling Sam," she said, with no other explanation.

"You don't want to do that, Mercy. If you're not, there's no point in even telling him."

Mercedes shook her head. "I don't want whatever it says on that stick to dictate the conversation," she explained. Quinn was going to question her on it, but she didn't. Instead she gestured toward the powder room, and Mercedes only nodded. Quinn could hear the beginning of the conversation as she went to go check. She had a flashback to when she was 16 years old, and doing this by herself, worried about how she was going to explain this to her friend's, her parent's, Finn. Had it really been more than 13 years ago? That whole ordeal had been a nightmare, but the result, Beth, was beautiful. She wasn't her baby, but in light of the fact that she was whole, healthy, and happy, did that really matter?

Quinn took longer than was necessary to get to the bathroom. And then once inside, she decided to use it before she looked at the test results. They both held the same answer. Quinn looked at them closely, wondering what Mercedes actually wanted them to say; that she was pregnant seemed to be a foregone conclusion to the Diva, and Quinn almost felt that Mercedes would respond the exact same way to the news, whether it was positive or negative. She picked one carefully off of the counter, and walked back out to the living room.

The conversation between her and Sam seemed to be wrapping up, and her friend hung up not too soon after she had rejoined her. "What was that about?" She questioned once Mercedes hung up the phone.

"Sam's going to take a few days off work, and fly up here."

"Did you tell him…you know?"

"No!"

"Did you tell him that you're scared that you are?"

"No." Mercedes fidgeted, nervously crunching a few of the potato chips into smithereens. "I asked him if he loved me."

Oh. "What he'd say?"

Her fingers moved more quickly. "He said he did, and then I asked him if he wanted to be with me, and he said he did. Among other things."

Mercedes didn't seem happy about said revelation. Quinn sat down in front of her. "What do _you_ want, Mercedes?" She blinked away tears. "If there was no pregnancy scare, if…I don't know, say it was a week after the wedding, or three weeks down the road, or two months, what do you want? Do _you_ love _him_?"

"I never stopped. He was the first boy I loved. He's the first boy who ever really made me feel loved. He's my Finn, my Santana. He's the guy I'm always going to compare everyone else to."

"So what's the problem?"

"I don't think he loves me in that kind of way."

"You didn't tell him that you're worried you might be pregnant?" She shook her head. "Then why's he flying up here?"

"Because he said that I sounded really upset, and if we're going to have a serious talk, he wants it to be in person."

"But you don't think that he wants to be with you?"

"He practically dated every other girl in glee club before he made it around to me."

"In high school! You really can't hold that to him, Mercy. I mean, not shaming my wife in any fashion, but do I need to remind you how many people Santana's slept with? But that doesn't make me feel as if I'm her last resort. I just know some things take time. He helped push you to be great, even though you two weren't even still dating any more. He's looked after you, and taken care of you, and been there for you. As far as both Santana and I see, the only woman he was a good man and match for is you. With me, he rolled over, with Brittany, he dumbed down, but with you, you two make each other better. He was going to get into a fight with an Airman over you, and I don't know if that necessarily spells out love, but the way he looks at you, well…that should."

Quinn reached for Mercedes hand. "Don't over think something that doesn't need to be over thought. If your feelings for Sam are the exact same no matter what the test says, then you have your answer about whether or not the two of you need to get together."

Eventually Mercedes looked over at Quinn. "So, what did it say?"

Quinn handed her the stick. Mercedes looked at it, and slowly breathed out.

* * *

Quinn called to cancel on their lunch date, so Santana didn't take one and got permission to go home 2 hours early. She honestly needed that time. Really, she needed a few days off before she jumped back into work, but that was a luxury she didn't have, and considering that her coworkers at the office were being worked just as much, she didn't really have anyone to complain to. She surprised herself with how well she was taking things. She had managed to be pleasant to her co-workers, she had been respectful, and hadn't been sarcastic to her boss, she talked to Quinn and didn't shut her out.

When she made it back to her apartment, she knew she was going to get started on cooking dinner, pack up a few things, watch some TV. She wasn't going to go home to cry. She was Ok. Not great, but Ok. And hey, if there was one good thing about coming home to find that the kid that you thought of as your son was gone and out of your reach forever, it was that it didn't give Santana the time to dwell on the fact that she had been shot.

Santana realized that she had left Phil's gifts sitting in her suitcase, so she unpacked them now, and sat them at the back of her closet. There really was no point in keeping them, but she didn't want to give them away either, so she was going to keep them. Just for now. At the sight of the toys, though, Santana felt her eyes stinging. She retrieved the plaster cast from where she had last discarded it, and sat down with it on the couch, her hand resting on top of the imprint of Phil's.

She couldn't say how long she sat there like that, when she jerked up suddenly. She pulled her laptop to her. She pulled up the transaction log for the credit card that Santana had given to Hazel. Santana saw the two transactions, each on a different day, of when Hazel had come into the city. She had seen these same transactions while in Arizona, and had wanted to lay into her about being that irresponsible, but of course she hadn't, because Hazel was a grown woman, and Santana shouldn't be spying on her in the first place.

The first time Santana had looked at the statements, she had only noticed that both locations were in Boston. Now she actually saw the companies billed with the two transactions. The two places that Hazel had gone to were to a private photo studio, and to a mailbox store. She looked back down at the plaster cast still sitting in her lap. Her eyes traced over the words, once, twice, her fingers dipping into the groves of his fingers. She could feel the slight difference in texture at a spot on the back, and she flipped it over, letting her fingers trail over it expertly. She slid back the panel, and tilted the cast down until a key fell out.

She sat the cast aside, turning back to her laptop screen, googling the address for the mail box place. Traffic was graciously light, and the office was nearly right around the block, so within five minutes she was there.

"I purchased a mailbox last week, and I must have lost the sheet of paper with the number on it. Can you tell me what box it was?"

The clerk was a stuffy, teenage girl, who looked less than helpful. "Your name?"

"Santana Lopez."

"Do you have the card that you purchased the box with?"

"I don't, but I can give you the number."

She looked like Santana was giving her unnecessary work, and she was less than thrilled by it. "What's the number?" Santana recited the 16 digits. "Do you have ID?"

Santana showed her her driver's license. She thought about showing her credentials, but unfortunately they were locked away in the safe, returned to its holding spot after her trip to Arizona.

"It's box 1311," she was informed.

She thanked the less than helpful girl, before turning away to find the right mail box. Santana gave herself a second to collect herself before she unlocked the box, and pulled out the contents. Inside there was one of those card stock boxes, the kind that they used to fill with coupons or vocabulary cards, only slightly bigger, and wooden. Santana opened the box to find that it was filled with photos. Top most on the pile was a note: _I hope one day I'll be able to explain. I'm sorry._ Santana pushed the note aside to look at the first photo. It was of Phil, of course, but it wasn't just a picture of him, it was actually the first ever picture of him, taken by Puck because Santana remembered Hazel being asleep at this time. It was also their, hers and his, first picture together. In the photo, Santana was staring down at the little boy as if he couldn't believe he was real, gently cuddling his tiny body to her. Her eyes were wide in amazement, a tiny, somewhat possessive smile decorated her lips. Santana flipped the picture to see that Hazel had written _The Protector_ in the bottom right hand portion.

Santana didn't look through all of them, she couldn't, not right then, but it only took a few shuffles through to get that most of them weren't pictures of Phil, but of Phil and Santana. It also didn't take but a quick look at a handful of them to realize what Hazel must have seen all along, especially since she'd been the one to take almost every picture in there. Possession. There was never a point in Phil's life where Santana didn't look at him in the same way that she'd looked at him the first time she held him in his arms.

* * *

Santana sat the box she was carrying on the floor in front of her. "That's it?" Quinn questioned, excitedly.

She gave a nod. "That's the last box." She clapped the dust off of her hands, looking around significantly. Most of Santana's stuff was going to storage for the next couple of months; the stuff she couldn't live that long without she had shifted over to Quinn's.

Quinn bit down on her lip to cut off her smile, but she couldn't hide away the happiness that shone from her hazel's. "So we're officially living together?"

Santana gave a smile in return. "Yep!" She took a quick step back, anticipating Quinn's movement, but Quinn slammed into her anyway. "The deal was when we _move in_ together," she reminded her wife. "Not when I move into your place."

"I was only going to give you a kiss, you ass," Quinn said irritably. "I can control myself."

Santana's lips curled. "I don't know about that, Mrs. Lopez."

"Fabray-Lopez."

"Are we still pretending about that?" she demanded. "It's just a matter of time."

"Keep telling yourself that."

Santana pulled Quinn to her, smiling into her lips. "Keep telling yourself that you can keep resisting me."

"You're such a tease!"

"I learned from the best." Santana smirked. "Consider it payback on behalf of every body out there who wanted to get into your pants, and was unable to. I can only imagine how many frustrated young teens who've had to take cold showers because of you."

Quinn grimaced because she could so sympathize now. And she had had to take a cold shower or two in high school because of Santana. And that skirt. When they were finally living together, in _their_ place, Quinn was going to see to it that Santana donned the Cheerio skirt, and she had every plan of taking her against the wall with her wearing it.

"As much as I've hated, not being able to be as intimate with you as I like, I've enjoyed this, too," Quinn admitted begrudgingly. "This chance for us to get to know each other better like this."

Santana gave her a very sweet kiss. "For that, I'm letting you touch boob the next time we make out." Quinn laughed, because she got an image, a montage really, of Finn, Puck, and Sam all practically begging just to touch her boobs over the clothes. Although Quinn and Puck hadn't stripped down when they'd had sex, Puck had still just sort of sat there, his hands on her breast for a whole minute before they'd done the deed. Quinn thought that they were so silly back then, just for wanting that small contact, but damn it if she didn't get a grin on her face at the idea of touching her wife's breasts. February couldn't get here fast enough.

But that reminded her or something that had been bothering her for a while, and she decided to voice her concern. "Did you throw out Gianna?"

The dildo that usually stayed suctioned to Santana's wall had been missing for a while, and every time she'd seen the gap she wanted to ask Santana about it, but she hadn't. She understood it having to come down because that was an awkward thing to have to explain to a four year old, but she distinctly remembered the thing disappearing before Phil had started coming over.

"I didn't throw her out. She's like a part of us, how could I?"

"Then where is she?"

"I hid her."

" _Why_?"

Santana gave her a very wicked smirk. "To keep you honest."

A few weeks after Santana moved into Quinn's apartment, Quinn was at their place, by herself, cooking dinner while she waited for her wife to get off of work when she heard a knock at the door. She gave a glance out of the peephole and saw a man with a uniform standing in the hall. She noticed his gun, and the official look of his face, and she could feel her heart sinking into the floor. _This was it_. Something had happened to Santana, and here was the guy sent to tell her the news. She set her face into a mask, and opened the door.

"Santana Lopez?" the man questioned. Quinn immediately noticed that he wasn't wearing a police outfit.

"She's not here. I'm her wife, Quinn Fabray-Lopez. How may I help you?"

The man consulted his clipboard. "May I see some ID, Mrs. Lopez?" With a frown Quinn went to her purse to get her wallet. She hesitantly showed the man her ID. He held the tablet out to her. "Sign here, please." Quinn signed. The man handed her an envelope. After all the effort it took to get it, it was rather unimpressive. "Thank you, Mrs. Lopez, and you have a nice day."

"It's Fabray-Lopez," she mumbled as the man walked down back down the hall. She looked at the envelope. Even though it was addressed to Santana, since they were married that meant she was allowed to like, open it and stuff now, right? It was only reluctantly that she sat it on the counter, and tried to put it out of her mind, but it kept drawing her eyes. Why in the world was an envelope being delivered to Santana by an armored guard?

Santana came home, singing a tuneless ditty as she walked through the door. "Hey, babe, how was your day?"

"Something was delivered for you while you were gone," Quinn informed her.

Santana kissed her. "Yeah? I wasn't expecting anything."

"It's on the table."

Santana's eyes lit up when she picked up the plain manila envelope. "About time?"

"What is that?"

Santana smile grew. "Payment!" She opened the envelope, holding out her hand as a 2-inch square piece of parchment paper fell into it, followed by a smaller square of parchment paper.

"Payment for what?"

Santana pulled a silver coin from the paper and held it up to the light to examine it. "For our bet. It's the dollar Puck owes me."

Quinn thought that that had been taken care of months ago. After all, how hard was it to mail a dollar? And why was it being delivered by an armored guard? She moved closer to see it. It didn't look like any coin that Quinn had ever seen before. "It's silver," she said, stating the obvious.

Santana nodded. She gave Quinn's head a condescending pat. "Very good, babe, I see you know your colors. It _is_ silver. It's an 1895 Morgan silver dollar to be exact."

Quinn could tell that there was a certain amount of importance to her words. "When you said a dollar, I thought it was a dollar bill."

"You _assumed_ it was a dollar bill, and what happens when you assume things, Quinnie?"

"I make an ass of you?"

Santana rolled her eyes. "I said the _bet_ was for a dollar, and it was. Here's the dollar."

"1895? That's real silver then." Santana nodded in agreement. "So, that coin is pretty valuable?"

Santana gave a soft chuckle, nodding. "You could say that."

"Why do you say it like that?"

Santana handed her the coin to hold and didn't answer. "You want to hear a really, really cool story?" she questioned instead.

Quinn nodded. "So back when we were like 10, Puck and I used to go visit his grandfather together. The man was like bat shit crazy, but he was kind of friends with this World War II vet who no one at the home liked because he was mean, and crass, and like to play pranks."

"So kind of like you two?"

Instead of being insulted, Santana just nodded. "He was like the 80 year old version of me and Puck. He was always cursing the nurses, and looking down their scrubs, and throwing shit, and yelling at everyone, so of course Puck and I loved him. We almost got kicked out of the nursing home because he, Puck, and I used to go around pranking the staff. I swear this man was like the coolest guy you'd ever meet."

Quinn paused a moment, thinking about 10 year old Santana. She smiled at the image of her and Puck hanging out with an extremely older version of themselves.

"Well, he died, but he left me and Puck his coin collection because he hated his kids, and they never came to visit him, but we did. We just thought it was cool that he remembered us at all, and didn't think much about it, but when we turned 18 we found out just how valuable the collection really was.

"I laughed when you asked if the coin was valuable because that beauty that you are currently holding in your hand is worth about a hundred thousand dollars."

Quinn nearly dropped the coin. Santana gently took it out of her hand, slipping it back inside the sleeve. She picked her story back up. "Some of the coins had to be sold off to pay the taxes, but the rest were divided evenly between us, and you know, me and Puck were like in possession of this small fortune, so we did what any rational people would do: we started making bets." Quinn rolled her eyes, because of course that's what they would do.

Santana examined the other object, a dime, to make sure that it was the proper one. Their values had all been memorized years ago. "They're just between me and him," Santana explained. "I mean we'd been doing it since we were 10 years old, anyway. There was just more at stake, now."

"So, that's worth a $100,000?" Santana nodded. Quinn looked suddenly very put out, and Santana didn't know why. She thought it was a really good story, but maybe Puck was right: it needed a pirate. "What's wrong, babe?"

"Nothing," Quinn mumbled.

Santana grabbed Quinn by the collar of her shirt, looking her in the eye. "That's not a nothing pout, what is it?"

Quinn looked away. "It's just…you know, never mind, forget it."

"Not unh, communication remember? What's the matter babe? You don't want me now that you know I'm balling?"

"I do," Quinn said, angrily brushing away tears. "It's embarrassing how much I do, I mean it's just that…okay, so when you said that we were getting married because of a dollar bet, I mean that meant that you were…that we were getting married because you wanted to be married, you know, to me. But now that there's actual money behind it, and a significant amount…"

Santana realized what Quinn was saying, and she chuckled. She pulled her into her arms, and used her thumb to wipe away Quinn's tears. "I swear, Quinn, I think you really have it set in your mind that Puck and I are like the stupidest people on this planet."

Quinn shuddered in the embrace. "What do you mean?" she sniffled.

"Gah, do you really think that we just go tossing out small fortunes on frivolous bets?"

Quinn ducked her head because the answer was obviously yes. But she was confused. Santana waited until Quinn was looking at her. "Baby, I did marry you over _just_ a dollar; it just happens to be a really expensive one. But it doesn't have any cash value. Not to me. Not to Puck. To us, it's just one of a bunch of coins given to us by a lonely old man who found kindred spirits before he died. The bets are about being able to say that we possess it, not an actual exchange of money. We don't play for keeps. Something else will happen somewhere down the line, and Puck will probably gain back possession of this coin. These coins, if we ever do cash them out, will be split evenly between us, and I don't see us ever cashing them in unless an emergency pops up; like a for real emergency, not just because we want more stuff.

"That's why I told you that if you needed some extra cash I have a safety deposit box, but you have to ask Puck before you can open it, because even though the money is in my possession at the moment, it's still _ours._ We both even have provisions for it in our wills."

"You have a will?"

Santana looked confused. "Don't you?"

"No, actually. I probably should, especially now that we're married, but all I've got are savings, and what not. That's…really mature of you, Santana. How long have you had a will?"

"Since I was 19. It's a necessity," she explained, feeling a tiny bit uncomfortable at her reason for having one. "Even though I don't have a trust fund, because of the coins I've got assets and stuff, and people to look after."

"What's in your will?"

Santana frowned, and Quinn wondered if she had overstepped her bounds or something, but that wasn't it. "It very strictly dictates who gets…um…my life insurance policy and survivor benefits if…," she coughed and didn't finish. "I'm not like worth a million dollars or anything. I think the last insurance estimates the coins are worth nearly half a million, so that's a quarter a piece for me and Puck, The coins are pretty much all I have to my name, and you know, our savings for the house."

"And the 50k you have lying around in books, and everything."

"Which I didn't accrue overnight, and is just for emergencies."

"How often do you update it?"

"I've done so three times since then. Back when I was 19 all I had were the coins and my insurance, so the coins went to Puck, the policy went to my parents. I updated the will again when Phil was born to make sure that Hazel would have enough in case something happened to me, and when I last updated my will it was when we got married, so I know you'll be taken care of. It'll probably get updated again once we have kids."

Quinn decided that she had enough talk of wills, because they were only used to determine what gets what after someone dies, and she didn't like thoughts of losing Santana. Quinn fingered the coin instead. "So you married me for a $100,000?"

Santana gave her wife an amused grin and a shake of her head. "No, moron, I married you for the sex. I just get paid to have it with you," she teased. Santana hugged Quinn tightly, planting a kiss on the side of her neck. "Stop with the pouting, and don't be so silly, because you know that you have replaced the oxygen in my lungs, and anything else that corny lovers say to each other. I mean I _just_ moved in with you, into your place. Now would I put myself through that torture if it was ever about a bet?"

Santana singing a few bars from _Trouty Mouth_ suddenly filled the kitchen. "What the hell?" she demanded. Vaguely she remembered putting that as Sam's ringtone _way_ back in their college days, but she had no idea that Sam even had the same number. The idea that he was texting her, was unfathomable. Santana checked her phone and saw that indeed, she did have a text from Trouty Mouth.

Santana frowned down at the message on her phone. "What the hell, Sam?" she demanded. "Hey, babe? I just got a text from Sam. Did you get one, too?"

Quinn checked her phone, but she knew it didn't go off. "No, what's your text say?"

" _She's my missus, now, bitches_ ," Santana read.

Quinn frowned. "He didn't really send that out, did he? Wow. Good thing I already knew, or else I'd be intensely offended."

"Knew. Knew what? What don't I know?" Santana demanded.

Quinn wrapped her arms around Santana's neck. "Do you remember when you sent a similar text to all of our people?"

"Yeah, but that's because we…got…ma…Sam got married? Who'd he marry? Does Mercedes know? Does this mean she can get back with Young?" she questioned hopefully.

Quinn gave her a 'really' look. "Come on, Santana, use that big brain of yours. Yes, Mercedes knows, you moron! Who do you think he's talking about?"

Santana held up a finger and made a face as meaning connected with words. "Wait…? You don't mean…Trouty and the Diva are getting _married_? Or are they already married?"

"The former."

" _Why?_ "

"Why do people get married?"

"Love, desperation, or they went and got knocked…" Quinn gave her a smile. "No! Don't say it."

"She's pregnant."

Santana's mouth practically crashed to the floor. "She's carrying his _spawn_? There's going to be Troutytots in the world? No, no me gusta, Quinn," Santana whined, "I dated him, you dated him, there's no way Trouty's going to be our kids' godparent! He's seen my boobs!"

Quinn pulled back. "He's _what_? You said that you two never had sex!"

"Clean your ears, babe, I said he's seen my boobs. Why can't she marry Young? I _like_ Young. We," she gestured between the two of them, "like Young. _Mercedes_ likes Young."

"And she _loves_ Sam."

Santana rapidly shook her head. "No, no she doesn't, she's just carrying his offspring. Tell her she doesn't have to marry him. We…we can move in with her, and then she doesn't have to take care of the baby alone."

" _Really_?" Quinn demanded, stern expression on her face. "You would do that?"

Santana sighed. "Okay, no, but we'll baby sit every now and then. Please tell me it's not so."

Quinn gave an amused smile. While her reaction hadn't been quite so dramatic, she had been pretty surprised. Mercedes was the last person among the Glee kids who she expected to end up knocked up, but then again she'd been one of the only ones who hadn't had a pregnancy scare yet, so maybe she was just due for it. "Sorry."

"I think I'm going to be sick."

Quinn hit her on the arm. "That's not nice. That's my best friend, remember?"

Santana pretended like she was having trouble staying on her feet. "It's not Mercedes making me sick, it's just them…together. Has no one in this stupid Glee family ever heard of a condom? Or just being gay?"

"I think they just got caught up…"

"Do _not_ finish that statement, please baby, I'm begging you. As much fun as it is to imagine our friends having sex, once that mental image gets in my head, I cannot unthink it." She shuddered. "She's really pregnant?"

Quinn nodded. "So let me get this straight. The big Gay Wonder Twins have kids, Brittany has a child on the way, Mercedes has a child on the way, Puck's probably knocked Shelly up by now…"

"And it's suddenly making you realize that you want to start having babies with me?" Quinn questioned quickly, before Santana could send either of them to a darker place.

Santana refused to be swayed from it, however. "One day, he's going to walk by me on the street, and he's not going to even know me."

"Yes, he will," Quinn said in a voice that was too firm to be placating.

"He's five," Santana whispered. "How much do you remember about being five?"

"I remember my favorite baby sitter," Quinn answered. "And she was _only_ the babysitter. Santana, love, he's not going to forget you. You're his mama, you'll always be his mama, even if you don't get to be there." Quinn stroked her cheek. "And who could forget you?"

Santana looked up, forcing herself not to let her thoughts go to the negative. "I'm pretty unforgettable, aren't I?"

"The most unforgettable-est."

"And we'll have more babies?"

"Yep. You've promised that I could knock you up at least twice," Quinn agreed.

Santana's head started to nod, but then she stopped. "Wait, no I didn't."

"That's how I heard it," Quinn said aloofly.

"Fine, but I want a brood," she decided. "Like Angie and Brad."

Quinn pulled back slightly. "Do you really?"

Santana gave a mysterious smile. "When you look this good, it's almost your responsibility to have as many beautiful babies as possible." Her smile suddenly vanished. "She's really pregnant?"

Quinn nodded. "I saw the stick myself."

"And they're getting married?" Again with the nod. "And she's really in love with him?"

"I think so. I really do think she is."

Geez, she really didn't want to have to make Trouty a part of their family. Santana sighed. "Love is…good. I guess."

Quinn was amazed by her wife. "I like to think so. Just look at us."

She looked at her wife. "I like us, babe."

Quinn smiled. "I _love_ us."

"Fine," she heaved a sigh. "But I'm still calling him Trouty Mouth." Quinn nodded. It was no less than she expected. "And I'm not going to suddenly start liking him. And he's not welcome in our place, or company, _unless_ Mercedes is with him. At all times!"

Quinn gave a placating nod. "Sure thing, San."

Santana was stricken with a sudden thought. "No joke, but just _think_ about how big that kid's lips are going to be!"

* * *

Epilogue

 _Santana was composing in her head excuses for why she couldn't make it back to Lima for the wedding. '_ I just moved and am still settling down, so I can't possibly leave the city so soon'. 'I can't get time off from work'. _That wouldn't work because Rachel's big mouth would probably tell that she didn't have a job. '_ I can't afford the plane ticket'. _Now that, that might work. Only, if she said that, Rachel and Kurt would probably insist on driving down instead, which result in her getting stuck in a car with Hummelberry for 10 or more hours, and she would_ still _have to go to the wedding._ What the fuck, _Santana thought. '_ I'm Santana God Damn Lopez. If I don't want to do something, I ain'ts about to do it, and I don't want to go to this stupid wedding' _. Santana luxuriated in that statement for about 3 minutes before she realized that that wouldn't work, either. She'd probably get laughed at for that one, even though Kurt and Rachel were still kind of scared of her._

_Santana's phone went off while she was in the middle of trying to come up with a good enough excuse that would keep her out of Lima, and away from the newly minted 'Bram'. She was a bit taken aback when she saw Quinn's face on the screen. "What's up, Fabray? This better be important, I'm busy."_

_Quinn scoffed. "Busy doing what, Santana? Trying to figure out ways to get out of going to the wedding?"_

_Santana was at a loss…because damn Quinn. Quinn laughed at the silence on the other side of the line. "You're going," Quinn instructed in a no-nonsense voice. "There's no way you're leaving me by myself to sit through that train wreck, and I'm not going to be the only single one there."_

_"What, you mean you're not bringing The Professor to meet us lowly and uncultured Limalites?"_

_"Just wear something sexy. You're my date."_

_"I'm your what?"_

_"I'm not showing up to a Valentine's wedding alone, so you're my date."_

_Quinn used that voice that Santana always seemed to have trouble arguing with, but she wasn't just going to roll over. "Alright, but you're shelling out for lunch. It's Breadstix or nothing."_

_Santana could feel the eye-roll. "Wear red," she snapped, and then she hung up the phone._

_On the day of the wedding, Santana was floored when she saw Quinn. Partly because she couldn't figure out why she had thought that that butt-ugly sequined cardigan was a good idea, but mostly it was because Quinn was otherwise simply stunning, and she never quite seemed to remember how much she missed being around the woman until she was back in her company. Quinn seemed to be equally impressed with Santana's choice in clothing. She looked Santana over in a not-so-innocent way, her lips lingering on the hem of her dress, before she brought her eyes up to meet Santana's, a knowing smirk on her face._

_"What're you smiling about?" Santana demanded._

_Quinn suggestively raised her eyebrows, but didn't answer the question. Seconds later, Quinn was hugging her, holding on slightly longer than was expressly necessary, surprising Santana greatly. As it turned out, it wouldn't be the biggest surprise of the night. Quinn seemed to be on the hunt, and it didn't take long for Santana to realize that she was the prey on the menu for the night. After an evening of flirting, (and a lot of alcohol), it shouldn't have surprised Santana at all, but it still had her jaw nearly dropping to the floor when Quinn suggested, not to subtlety, that they take things upstairs._

_Santana drew back from Quinn at the words, studying her face. Quinn was wearing one of those indiscernible looks she was known for, a coy smile on her lips._

_"Are you shitting me, Fabray?"_

_"You telling me you don't want this?" Quinn challenged._

_Santana couldn't figure out if she was being serious, but she was determined to see how far Quinn was going to push this. "Please, Fabray, you couldn't handle all that I've got."_

_Quinn didn't back down. "We'll see who's begging whom by the end of the night."_

_"You serious?"_

_Instead of answering, Quinn leaned down to place a short, but passionate, kiss on Santana's lips, before she turned on her heels, heading for the bank of elevator's. Santana stood there a moment, not quite sure what happened, but when Quinn turned back around, and sent a, "You coming," over her shoulder, all she could do was jog after her._

_Quinn attacked her almost as soon as the door was opened, pushing Santana roughly into the back of the door, and attacking her lips as if Santana's mouth contained the breath of life. They fought for dominance and ended up tumbling into the bed together, Quinn surprisingly controlling until Santana flipped them over, and worked the Lopez magic, until Quinn was practically begging for her to stop._

_Santana was expecting Quinn to hightail it from the bed as soon as she came down from her post orgasm haze. She'd had that experience, once. When she had been so hot and bothered by wanting to bed someone that she'd nearly mauled them, but after it happened she felt immediate regret afterwards. But Quinn wasn't running. She lay back, sated, a smile on her face like she'd just had her world rocked. She kind of gasped, pointed at her throat, so Santana got off the bed to get her a bottle of water, her eyes not leaving her the whole time. She sat the water on the nightstand, before falling sideways on the bed, covering up with the sheet._

_"So that's why college girls experiment."_

_"And thank God they do," Santana chided, laughing and finding comfort in the fact that somehow it wasn't awkward between the two of them. She had Quinn's taste all over her lips, and yet they could have just come off of the Cheerio's practice field, besides the fact that Quinn had that contented 'just fucked' look to her features. Santana marveled at the way the woman glowed because of her ministrations._

_Quinn was carefully not looking at Santana, until she dropped her eyes, and hedged her bets. "You know it was fun, and I always wondered what it would be like to be with a woman, but I, I don't know. I think for me it was more of a one-time thing."_

_Santana was neither surprised nor too upset about Quinn's statement. After all, she knew that it was in all likelihood coming. She did marvel at the fact that Quinn hadn't yet left the bed._

_"Look, you don't have to worry. I'm not going to show up at your house with a U-haul."_

_Quinn gave a little laugh that sounded somewhat wistful. Santana watched her pick up the bottle of water on the nightstand, before returning her gaze to the woman that was in the bed with her, covered up by only the blanket, her position giving a huge suggestion to what they had just been doing._

_Quinn let show a little bit of her vulnerability when she questioned, "So what happens next?"_

_"Well you could walk out first…" Santana, knew what she wanted to happen next, but realized that she was probably unlikely to get it, and didn't want to scare Quinn from this relative calm that the two were experiencing. She wanted to leave the door open to more, but didn't want to pressure her. Even though Santana knew that this $wasn't Quinn's first time with a woman, (she just knew that she and Mack got it on, even if Quinn hadn't admitted that to her yet), it's her first time with Santana. The Glee kids were in rooms surrounding them, and they're in the middle of Lima, Ohio, with all of its judgments and small-mindedness. "Or we could make it a two-time thing?"_

_There was a moment, no more than a few seconds, but that seemed to stretch with expectation and all manner of unspoken things, and then to Santana's ever loving delight, Quinn put the bottle of water back down, and slinked across the bed, gently pushing Santana back against the bedding, and placing an unhurried kiss on her lips._

_Their next round of sex was nothing like their first. Their first time had been frantic, but the next Quinn seemed to be searching for something, and Santana let her attempt to find it. With each kiss, with each hip thrust, with each pant, and moan, Santana felt like she was falling under. Every second her body cried more, and her heart cried, too much. Santana had done this before, she had gone down this path before, and she didn't like it. It hurt too much when it didn't live up to its expectations. But she was too weak to say stop, and she didn't want this feeling to ever stop. So they didn't._

_Santana woke up feeling disjointed, but so very calm. She felt right. Like things were right. She wasn't upset about Brittany, she wasn't worried about how she'd fit in In New York, she wasn't worried about the future, she was content, she was sated. She grunted when she opened her eyes, because the sun was bright, even behind the curtain, and her throat was a little sore, as was her head; a side effect from the amount of alcohol she had consumed the day before. She knew Quinn was going to be feeling worse, and she wanted to sneak downstairs to the concierge to get some Advil for her for when she woke up, but when she tried to move from the bed, Quinn tightened her hold around her. "Not yet," she murmured._

_"What not yet?" Santana questioned, softly. Quinn looked so much like an angel she didn't want to risk waking her up._

_Quinn turned into her, kissing whatever part of Santana's body was closest to her lips. "Not done dreaming."_

_Santana watched Quinn to see if she was going to say or do something else, but then she realized that Quinn had been talking in her sleep. Santana gave a soft laugh. She had just had one of the best nights of her life, only to wake up to find that the cause of it was still in her arms. It was like a light bulb flashed off in her head. She had just had sex with one of her best friends, and afterwards she hadn't rushed off, she hadn't pushed her away, she hadn't accused her of taking advantage of her in her vulnerable and intoxicated state. She had curled into her, dragging her closer, wanting more. Santana knew then that she was in trouble because she was in love with her best friend, and she knew how much heartache that could bring. She also couldn't imagine anything that she wanted more than to have a thousand more mornings like this._

_"Love you, Lucy Q," Santana whispered so softly that all Quinn, if she was awake, would have felt or heard from it was the breath that she exhaled._

_Santana knew Quinn was still asleep, but wonder of wonders happened a few seconds later when a tiny voice said certainly, "I love you, Santana."_

_Her eyes widened. She knew that Quinn wasn't awake, wasn't even semi-conscious, but somehow it made it that much better because this was Quinn at her absolute unfiltered. This was Quinn with all of her walls down, fully exposed. Santana looked at the clock. It was 9:55, in the morning, on February 15_ _th_ _, the day after Valentine's Day, 2013, Quinn was still in her arms, and she vowed to always remember how she felt at this very minute of her life when, for once, it seemed like everything was perfect, because her future was sleeping in her arms. She was willing to bet on it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So that's it. I've got a bit of a few long author's notes so bare with me. It's always amazing for a writer to see how people respond to their work. Over the weekend more than 2,000 people visited and while I know those are not all unique hits, I'm amazed that there are still that many people who connect with this story. I miss the sense of community in the fanfiction world back when Glee was in its HeyDay; I encourage people to continue to write Quintanna Fanfiction, and to continue to write your own characters and your own worlds. I have been doing it since I was 7.
> 
> I know that this kind of seems like it ends on a cliff hanger, and since I'm not finishing "Surviving Happily Ever After" I'll answer any questions you might have. So send me a PM, post in the comments, or send a Tweet to Les-Bi Lit at AllyCatFTW.
> 
> If you want to know what's in the works: my two big writing projects are a non-Glee version of the fanfiction story "Stay With Me" which doesn't stray too much from the original plot line, and The Fourth Wall, a series of books that follows the actors and actresses of a popular TV show off camera. It's set in LA, features romance, drugs, ego, and coming out in Hollywood. The characters are really diverse, and complex, and it's a really fun project that I've been working on for the past couple of years, and can't wait for you guys to read it!
> 
> Thanks again, everyone! Hope to hear from you soon. ~Jaie.

**Author's Note:**

> So, I will be re-uploading this story a couple of chapters at a time, as a favor to a few fans who requested it, but I am asking for a favor in return. Like a week ago, I started a new Twitter account: Les Bi Lit at AllyCat_FTW, and I am trying to build up an audience for my writing. I'm currently in Grad school getting my MFA, and I'm trying to build up a platform for all of my amazingly amazing lesbian love stories and novels I'm trying to bless the world with. I'm asking for your support. If you ever read and liked anything I've written, if you've ever read and liked anything, anyone's written, and you understand how hard it is trying to raise the platform and capital to produce queer friendly content, Please follow me on the Twitter.


End file.
